Page 52 of Surprise Me Tonight
It’s exactly what she promised — plastic cups of warm prosecco, fairy lights strung unevenly across the ceiling, and an amateur band gamely fighting a feedback issue. Her aunt Joan is holding court in the centre like a queen who’s just discovered karaoke, and no one’s going home until she’s sung Dancing Queentwice.
People have been friendly. Chatty, even. But there’s a thread running underneath every handshake and smile:Who’s this, then?
Stella’s not oblivious. I can see it in the way her hand finds my arm whenever someone gets too interested, or the way she redirects a question just before it becomesa bit much. It’s not obvious, but it’s there. Her subtle wall-building.
Someone tried the age question a few minutes ago. A cheerful “So how does one meet such a youthful soul...?” followed by an entirely unnecessary wink.
Stella didn’t blink. “We met through work,” she said simply, then offered them a vol-au-vent like it was a conversation ender.
It worked.
She hasn’t let go of me since.
Now she’s pouring us both a drink from the folding table that’s doing its best to serve as a bar.
“You’re doing a lot of deflecting,” I murmur, leaning in.
She doesn’t look up. “You’re doing a lot of turning heads.”
“I’m not even trying.”
“That’s the problem.”
I glance down at myself. “Didn’t realise a black T-shirt was so provocative.”
“It’s the arms,” she mutters, then flicks me a look. “And the face. And the you-ness.”
I grin and take the plastic cup from her hand.
“I like seeing you in this world,” I say, quietly now.
She finally meets my gaze. Something shifts behind her eyes — not soft exactly, butunguarded.
“I likebeingin it,” I add.
She gives a small shake of her head, lips curving like I’ve said something dangerous. Then she thrusts a sausage roll into my hand, the most British way possible to saydon’t get soppy on me.
Before I can find a retort that doesn’t sound like a marriage proposal, Aunt Joan waves us over from her spotnear the centre of the room. She's surrounded by half a dozen guests, a pile of gifts, and what looks suspiciously like another gin and tonic.
Stella links her arm through mine and leads me to the table like I need guidance but I think she is the one who needs the support.
“About time you came to say hello properly,” Joan says, swatting at Stella’s hip with the back of her hand. “Keeping this one hidden, were you?”
Stella laughs. “You’ve been surrounded all night. I was waiting for your fan club to thin out.”
Joan eyes me up and down, not subtly. “He’s got forearms. And a nice smile. Good start.”
“Lovely to meet you,” I say, trying not to grin.
She waves it off like I’ve said something idiotic. “Don’t be daft. No need for formalities. I’ve already decided I like you.”
We sit with her, chatting. It’s easy, surprisingly. She’s sharp as anything — calls out a greeting to every newcomer, has opinions on absolutely everything, and tells me I should stop being shy and pour her another drink.
But then I notice it — the whispering. One of Stella’s cousins, huddled at a table not far off, clearly not as subtle as she thinks she is. Eyes flicking to us. Whispering to the one beside her, who looks mortified.
Joan spots it too.
She puts down her drink, leans slightly forward, and barks — actually barks — across the room, “If you’ve got something to say, love, bloody say it out loud.”
