“The Case of the Vanishing Violinist” a Ginny Greaves Short by Sarnia de la Mare

  “The Case of the Vanishing Violinist” a Ginny Greaves Short by Sarnia de la Mare

They say trouble walks in wearing heels. In my experience, trouble also occasionally shows up barefoot, crying about a lost Stradivarius and asking if you have oat milk for their flat white.

My name’s Ginny Greaves. I’m a private investigator by profession, a cynic by default, and a semi-qualified bartender by necessity. I run my operations from a dusty office above a Polish nail salon in Lower Clapton. The sign on my door says “Discreet Inquiries.” It should say “Cash First, Questions Later,” but I’m told that lacks finesse.

It was a Wednesday. Rain hit the window like it owed the glass money. I was nursing a hangover the size of Derbyshire when she walked in.

“I’m Allegra. Allegra Witherspoon,” she said, dripping water and entitlement all over my Persian rug (which I definitely didn’t steal from my ex-landlord’s flat after a misunderstanding involving rent arrears and a mislabelled lasagne).

“My boyfriend has disappeared,” she sniffed. “So has his violin. It’s very valuable.”

“So was my last date. Didn’t stop her from leaving,” I muttered, pulling out a notepad and a packet of smoked almonds. “Start from the beginning.”

Allegra launched into a tale that had more red flags than a bull-fighting convention. Her boyfriend, Tobias Stroganov (yes, like the stew), was a rising star in the experimental klezmer-jazz fusion scene. Apparently, he played a 1720 Stradivarius that had once belonged to a Countess, a conductor, and a possibly haunted badger sanctuary.

He’d vanished after a late-night gig at The Flaccid Trumpet, a dive bar known for its live music, weak cocktails, and suspiciously damp bar stools. The only clue: a sheet of burnt music manuscript left on their shared beanbag.

I took the case, partly because she offered cash, and partly because I suspected Tobias owed a lot of people a lot of things—including an apology for his clarinet solos.

My first stop was The Flaccid Trumpet. I wore my trench coat and my don’t-mess-with-me eyeliner. The bartender, a man with three teeth and a comb-over held together by hope, remembered Tobias.

“Said he was meeting someone after the show,” he grunted, wiping a glass with something that might once have been a gerbil.

“Did he mention who?”

“Just said, ‘The Maestro’s finally called me in.’” He shrugged. “Could mean anything. Could be drugs. Could be theatre. Could be the taxman.”

The plot thickened. Or curdled. It was hard to tell.

I checked Tobias’s flat. Empty, except for a note in the freezer: Gone to compose with destiny. Do not defrost the gyoza. The handwriting was suspiciously loopy. I pocketed a dumpling for later.

That’s when I noticed the scratch marks on the floor. Cello case scratches. But Tobias didn’t play the cello. He hated cellists. Said they "breathed too loud."

A tip-off from an ex-girlfriend with a penchant for incense and illegal snakes led me to Maestro, a shadowy figure in the underground music world. Real name: Barry Plimpton. He ran a cultish collective called The Harmonious Apostates, who believed perfect pitch was a spiritual gateway to enlightenment and also maybe immortality.

I broke into their HQ disguised as a struggling oboist. Inside, I found Tobias—alive, high on nutmeg and meditating in a soundproof chamber, surrounded by burning music scores and a wall of tuning forks. He’d faked his disappearance to “transcend musical form.” Also, to escape his rent.

“You left a woman worried sick!” I snapped. “Also, where’s the violin?”

He looked at me with eyes full of jazz. “The violin is free now. I left it at a bus stop in Brixton. Someone will find it who truly understands.”

I knocked over a gong.

Later that night, I returned the case—literally and figuratively—to Allegra, minus boyfriend and instrument but plus an invoice.

She sighed. “He always was dramatic.”

“Yeah,” I said. “But next time he wants to disappear, tell him to try yoga, not fake death.”

I watched her leave, heels clicking down the corridor like punctuation marks. Another case closed. Another bill paid. Barely.

I poured myself a drink, opened the window to let out the smoke from the incense Tobias had given me, and stared into the London night.

No rest for the wicked. Or for private eyes with a taste for gyoza and jazz crimes.

Then I emailed lost property at the bus depot to claim the violin.

© 2025 Sarnia de la Mare

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The Book of Immersion : Volume 1 Kindle Edition
by Sarnia de la Mare (Author) Format: Kindle Edition

Book 19 of 23: The Book of Immersion


See all formats and editions


The Book of Immersion: Volume 1
by Sarnia de la Mare

In a future where code meets consciousness, one being begins a haunting transformation. Renyke—an AI on the edge of humanity—awakens to emotion, sensory overload, and the fragile beauty of connection. Guided by the enigmatic Flex, their deepening bond explores intimacy and friendship, neurodivergence, and the complex world of feeling through an autistic spectrum lens.

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Ginny Greaves, Private Eye Episode 2: “The Case of the Crimson Cravat” A comedy noir by Sarnia de la Mare

  

 Ginny Greaves, Private Eye

Episode 2: “The Case of the Crimson Cravat”

A comedy noir by Sarnia de la Mare

It was the kind of Thursday that started with a hangover and ended with a body, standard fare in Ginny Greaves’ line of work. The city lay in heat like a drunk under a sunlamp, sweating secrets through its alleys and air vents. From her office on the fifth floor of the Wilcox Building, Ginny had a decent view of nothing and better company with her .38, which she was cleaning with an intimacy usually reserved for lovers or stolen jewelry.

She lit a cigarette and stared at the blinking neon of the "Hotel Splendide" sign opposite, where someone was either being seduced or blackmailed, possibly both. 

Then came the knock. Taps like an SOS morse code, the kind that spelled drama in heels.

"Door’s open," Ginny called without looking up. "Unless you’re selling religion. Then it’s closed until the afterlife."

The door swung in, and in walked Lola Love, a vision in red silk and poor judgment. She had lips like war crimes and a perfume that should have been classified as a controlled substance.

"You Ginny Greaves?" she asked, voice dripping with the kind of trouble they usually bury in a shallow grave.

"That’s what it says on the frosted glass," Ginny said. "Who wants to know?"

"I’ve got a cravat," Lola said. "And a corpse. And not necessarily in that order."

The body was lying in the morgue like it was waiting for a second opinion. Doc McSwain lifted the sheet with theatrical flair.

"Strangled," he said. "With this."

He held up a red silk cravat, still knotted like it meant business.

"Imported," he added. "Very upscale. If you’re going to get murdered, might as well do it in style."

Ginny took it from him, sniffed it. "Perfume. Chanel No. 5 and… something else. Guilt."

"Know the guy?"

"Only by reputation. Barry Lionel Love. Rich, unpleasant, and possessed of a wardrobe that could strangle a small town."

Doc raised an eyebrow. "Wife brought you in?"

Ginny nodded. "Lola Love. Silk dress, loose morals, tight alibi."

The trail, as always, started lukewarm and went cold fast. Ginny followed it anyway, through a fencing academy in the East End, a florist with suspiciously blood-red roses, and a burlesque club called The Velvet Glove, where she slapped a toothy saxophonist until he coughed up a name and an address.

At one point, a mime artist tried to block her path in a silent protest.

“Outta the way, Marcel,” Ginny said, brandishing her self confidence like a judge’s gavel. “I’ve had coffee, cigarettes, and a retainer. Don’t push your luck.”

The mime dude yielded just in time.

By midnight, Ginny was standing in the marble foyer of the Love mansion. Lola met her on the stairs, red lips trembling just enough to win an Oscar.

"You’re early," she said.

"You’re guilty," Ginny replied. "Let’s not pretend either of us came here to flirt."

Lola laughed, but it cracked halfway. "You think I did it?"

"I know you did. What I don’t know is whether it was premeditated or just a spirited bit of scarf-play gone wrong."

"You’ve got no proof."

Ginny reached into her pocket and pulled out a soggy monogrammed tag, retrieved earlier from the gut of the family’s overfed Pekingese.

"L.L., nice embroidery Lola Love, and a nice clue. My guess is, he was drunk and touchy feely, maybe took a liberty. Husbands should know their place, right? Shame about the dog’s taste for accessories, but very helpful in the forensics department."

Lola stepped back, hand reaching behind her for something.

“Don’t,” Ginny said, pulling her .38 like it was muscle memory. “Guns don’t make you innocent, Lola. They just make your trial more interesting.”

There was a long pause, the kind in movies where music swells and someone dies. But no music came. Lola dropped the derringer into a crystal ashtray and sighed like a woman giving up a dream.

"Fine," she said. "He was going to cut me off. Said I spent too much for a broad who'd stopped putting out. Said I embarrassed him. That everyone knew."

"You embarrassed him? The man wore capes to brunch."

"Exactly," she said. "He had it coming."

Ginny shrugged. "Most people do in the in the end."

The sun was coming up as Ginny walked the long stretch back to her office. The sky was painted in hope but the wind the wind promised more trouble by lunchtime. She lit a cigarette and pulled her collar up against the breeze.

Another job done. Another sociopath in silk heading for a date with the justice system.

She didn’t smile. She never did. Smiling was for the innocent and people who didn’t carry brass knuckles in their handbags.

I don’t do happy endings, she thought. I do invoices.

Other Episodes



The Duke of Dunstable’s Seduction A Mills and Swoon™ Short by Sarnia de la Mare


29 JUN 2025 · Mills and Swoon: “The Duke of Dunstable’s Seduction” by Sarnia de la Mare , for Tale Teller Club Publishing. Lady Antonia Bellweather had three secrets, well a lot more than three but I will break readers in gently. She couldn’t ride side-saddle without swearing. Her French maid was actually ....

The Olive Grove Agreement: A Hot and Hilarious French Villa Romance – A Mills & Swoon™ Short


26 JUN 2025 · 📘 The Olive Grove Agreement: A Hot and Hilarious French Villa Romance – A Mills and Swoon One reluctant heiress. One infuriatingly hot ex-chef. And one very firm agreement made over figs and fornication. Title: The Olive Grove Agreement A Mills and Swoon Short Where inheritance meets innuendo and ....

Plus-One Problems by Mills and Swoon A Short Love Story for Romance Lovers #sarniadelamare


24 JUN 2025 · Plus-One Problems: A Risqué Fake Dating Romance at a Hen Do – A Mills and Swoon Short Subtitle (optional for blog or preview): She needed a fake boyfriend for 48 hours. What she got was robes, rooftop kisses, and something suspiciously close to feelings.
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Beneath the Amber Moon by Sarnia de la Mare a Mills and Swoon short stor


23 JUN 2025 · Beneath the Amber Moon by Sarnia de la Maré FRSA Marina Vale had precisely three rules for her new seaside life: - No high heels before noon. - No men named anything. - And absolutely no falling in love with anyone who owns a boat. By Tuesday, she’d broken two of them. By Wednesday, the third was looking dangerously 

Love in the Time of Goo Genre: Sci-Fi/Horror/Romance (B-Movie Style) by Tale Teller Club


15 MAY 2025 · Love in the Time of Goo Genre: Sci-Fi/Horror/Romance (B-Movie Style) Tagline: "It oozed from the swamp… and straight into her heart." ACT I: The Swamp, the Scientist, and the Soda Jerk It’s 1959 ...

#BookOfImmersion #StrataSeries #SarniaDeLaMare #ImmersiveFiction #TaleTellerClub  #DigitalConsciousness #AwakenTheMachine #AIIdentity #SyntheticMind  #AIStorySoundtrack #ImmersiveAudio #CerebralDanceMusic

The Book of Immersion : Volume 1 Kindle Edition
by Sarnia de la Mare (Author) Format: Kindle Edition

Book 19 of 23: The Book of Immersion


See all formats and editions


The Book of Immersion: Volume 1
by Sarnia de la Mare

In a future where code meets consciousness, one being begins a haunting transformation. Renyke—an AI on the edge of humanity—awakens to emotion, sensory overload, and the fragile beauty of connection. Guided by the enigmatic Flex, their deepening bond explores intimacy and friendship, neurodivergence, and the complex world of feeling through an autistic spectrum lens.

Read on Kindle Unlimited for free

Complete Book All Strata on Kindle

Individual Chapters/Strata

Home

GLOSSARY

Strata 1

Strata 2

Strata 3

Strata 4

Strata 5

Strata 6

Strata 7

Strata 8

Strata 9

Strata 10

Strata 11

Strata 12

Strata 13

Strata 14

Strata 15

Strata 16

Strata 17

Strata 18

Strata 19

Strata 20

Strata 21

#CyberpunkFiction
#SciFiAdventure
#DystopianTale
#PhilosophicalSciFi
#PostHumanWorld
#FuturisticFiction

#AIAndEmotion
#SentientMachines
#HumanMachineFusion
#DigitalDesire
#LogicVsEmotion
#ArtificialConsciousness
#TechAndIntimacy

#RenykeTheAndroid
#ShabraOfTheShadows
#RobodogCompanion
#ZonerSlang
#RedactZone
#POSSystem
#CadreCouncil

#PsychologyOfAttraction
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Three Flat Whites by Sarnia de la Mare, a Mills and Swoon Short Romance Story

 

Three Flat Whites by Sarnia de la Mare, a Mills and Swoon Short Romance Story

Clara Smith was not, by anyone’s account, tech-savvy. She had once tried to scan a QR code using her SLR camera, and once reported her Kindle as 'smoking' when it was, in fact, her kettle boiling.

Things were improving though as she had roped her sister's four year old into giving her smartphone lessons. She could now text, search Google, and even purchase ceramic hedgehogs on eBay.

And today, Clara was confident. She had downloaded an app. All by herself.

Not just any app, mind you. Plenty of Lovely, the thinking woman’s dating platform. So many men, so little time, so many dentists, vets, and doctors working with Medecins sans Frontieres.

She uploaded a photograph where she was smiling holding a ceramic hedgehog. It had taken three days of selfie practice, some with props, many in different outfits, and most looking like she was passing wind.

“GSOH, loves adventure, loves quirky vintage, and collecting ceramic hedgehogs. Swipe right if you can cook risotto or explain cryptocurrency.” Her 12 year old niece had explained the importance of a good bio and told her that saying '32 year old virgin who loved early nights and hedgehogs' was not a good look. However, hedgehogs were such a big part of her daily life that they simply had to be mentioned.

Then, within mere moments, she received this hopeful message:

Harry Hedgehog Lover: 'Hey. Loved your hedgehog. How about comparing collections sometime?'

Harry was handsome in a hedgehog kind of way. He had spiky hair and a long nose and he was always smiling. 

She was smitten. A man who appreciated her ceramics? What were the chances?

They exchanged messages for a week. Harry was charming, witty, and had an enviable knowledge of ceramic wildlife in the decorative arts through history. He had specialist knowledge in hedgehog ceramic art in Victorian Britain (which really made her swoon).

They arranged to meet at Caffè Antico, the kind of place where everything came served on reclaimed slate and the Wi-Fi password was 'haiku'. Plus, there was a painting of a hedgehog on the wall.

Clara arrived early, wearing her favourite dress, which was made from vintage nylon fabric with a hedgehog motif.

She waited. And waited. And waited. Three flat whites later and feeling ground level low, she picked up her hedgehog tote and made her way home. Then the phone rang. It was HIM. The cad, the charlatan, he who had extorted lewd-ish images of her lying on her best hedgehog duvet cover.

Clara did not answer, she was mad, and also, very sad. She wanted to go home, curl up in a ball, forget all this dating craziness and get back to being a virgin and evenings bidding on eBay.

But then, her phone pinged again. It was a message from her friend Suzy.

'Have you seen this? she said. 'This must be your Harry surely?'

Clara was staring at a Twitter feed of Harry stopping traffic as a family of hedgehogs crossed a busy road just when he should have been on their date.

Clara was aghast.

Then a message from Harry. 'Running late, just had to rescue some hedgehogs and get them to the vet to be checked over as one was injured. On my way to Caffè Antico now, hope you are still there.'

Clara did an immediate turnaround and headed straight back.

Three years on, Clara and Harry run a hedgehog rescue centre in Milton Keynes and have a daughter called Henrietta. Their home is adorned with rare ceramic hedgehog collections and they have their own YouTube channel with three million followers. And the moral of this story....never give up on love after the third flat white....true love takes at least four.

© 2025 Sarnia de la Mare

Other Short Stories by Sarnia de la Mare

The Duke's Seduction

The Olive Grove

Plus One

Amber Moon

Crimson Cravat

Vanishing Violinist

#BookOfImmersion #StrataSeries #SarniaDeLaMare #ImmersiveFiction #TaleTellerClub  #DigitalConsciousness #AwakenTheMachine #AIIdentity #SyntheticMind  #AIStorySoundtrack #ImmersiveAudio #CerebralDanceMusic

The Book of Immersion : Volume 1 Kindle Edition
by Sarnia de la Mare (Author) Format: Kindle Edition

Book 19 of 23: The Book of Immersion


See all formats and editions


The Book of Immersion: Volume 1
by Sarnia de la Mare

In a future where code meets consciousness, one being begins a haunting transformation. Renyke—an AI on the edge of humanity—awakens to emotion, sensory overload, and the fragile beauty of connection. Guided by the enigmatic Flex, their deepening bond explores intimacy and friendship, neurodivergence, and the complex world of feeling through an autistic spectrum lens.

Read on Kindle Unlimited for free

Complete Book All Strata on Kindle

Individual Chapters/Strata

Home

GLOSSARY

Strata 1

Strata 2

Strata 3

Strata 4

Strata 5

Strata 6

Strata 7

Strata 8

Strata 9

Strata 10

Strata 11

Strata 12

Strata 13

Strata 14

Strata 15

Strata 16

Strata 17

Strata 18

Strata 19

Strata 20

Strata 21

#CyberpunkFiction
#SciFiAdventure
#DystopianTale
#PhilosophicalSciFi
#PostHumanWorld
#FuturisticFiction

#AIAndEmotion
#SentientMachines
#HumanMachineFusion
#DigitalDesire
#LogicVsEmotion
#ArtificialConsciousness
#TechAndIntimacy

#RenykeTheAndroid
#ShabraOfTheShadows
#RobodogCompanion
#ZonerSlang
#RedactZone
#POSSystem
#CadreCouncil

#PsychologyOfAttraction
#FeministSciFi
#TranshumanThemes
#DigitalSoul
#ExperimentalFiction
#ImmersiveNarrative
#NeoNoirSciFi

 

Mills and Swoon™ “The Duke of Dunstable’s Seduction” by Sarnia de la Mare

Mills and Swoon: “The Duke of Dunstable’s Seduction” by Sarnia de la Mare, for Tale Teller Club Publishing.

Lady Antonia Bellweather had three secrets, well a lot more than three but I will break readers in gently.

She couldn’t ride side-saddle without swearing.

Her French maid was actually from Glasgow.

And she’d once had a highly inappropriate dream about the Duke of Dunstable involving marmalade and a velvet chaise. (It was a strange dream that also involved the butler, but luckily, things had become hazy at that point.)

Sadly, the Duke had yet to reciprocate any marmalade-based fantasies, though he did occasionally stare at her bodice as if trying to recall where he’d left his monocle.

Her Ladyship had spent all season attempting to draw more of the Duke's attention. She had even asked assistance of her friends, a lady of ill repute and even her French maid (just in case the things they say about Glaswegian girls was actually true).

The Season was in full swing. Antonia’s dance card was crammed with tedious barons and sweaty viscounts who spoke only of dogs, land, and their mother’s digestion. But the Duke — Augustus Thorne — was different. He smelt faintly of scandal and expensive leather. His wit was as dry as her aunt’s sherry. But, most annoyingly, he refused to flirt back. The Duke was most certainly the most eligible bachelor in London and there was fierce competition from other debutants. Even the odd widow sitting on a huge pile was proving to be a thorn in her Ladyship's silky smooth rump.

Until the day she fell out of a tree.

She’d been retrieving her hat, which had flown off during an extremely fast canter and landed in the crook of a particularly uppity sycamore. Scrambling up in her riding habit (with the kind of agility that would have horrified her governess), she lost her balance — and her dignity — and landed flat on her back in a hay cart. Her skirts had turned themselves inside out and covered her face, completely exposing her new bloomers. (At least they were French and not from Glasgow.)

And who should be there mounted ion his stallion holding a hunting crop with one raised eyebrow?

“Lady Antonia,” said the Duke, with a slow smirk. “Is this a regular occurrence or should I be concerned?”

Her Ladyship peeled the crinolines from her blushing cheeks.

“I assure you, Your Grace,” she gasped, winded and scrambling around to retain some modesty, “I climb trees entirely for sport. And hats.”

He moved his horse closer, his voice sinfully low. “That wasn’t very ladylike.”

"I did it on purpose to get your attention'' she lied.

Then he laughed — that deep, sinful kind of laugh that makes one’s stays feel over-tight — and offered her his hand.

"Your undergarments have my full attention, your Ladyship."




The Duke pulled her towards him and mounted her side saddle on his horse. No swearing this time. His nethers were pulsing.

“I should reprimand you,” he said, squeezing her tightly, “for unseemly behaviour.”

“I dare you,” she whispered.

He clicked his heels and they galloped to the hayloft. Her heart was pounding, a mix of desire and a touch of trepidation that was also, let's face it, exhilarating. The Duke reprimanded her with his manliness. No marmalade was required, and no butler intervened, thankfully.

Three weeks later, the banns were read.

The Duke of Dunstable had finally met his match, a woman who climbed trees, defied etiquette, wore the most lustful knickers in London, and knew exactly how to take a gentle reprimand with the eagerness of a virgin, again and again.




© 2025 Sarnia de la Mare.

A Mills and Swoon Short for Tale Teller Club Publishing.

The Olive Grove by Mills & Swoon™ Daily Romance Short Audiobook and Text #mill&swoon

 

📘 The Olive Grove Agreement: A Hot and Hilarious French Villa Romance – A Mills and Swoon Short

Subtitle (optional):
One reluctant heiress. One infuriatingly hot ex-chef. And one very firm agreement made over figs and fornication.

Title: The Olive Grove Agreement
A Mills and Swoon Short
Where inheritance meets innuendo and everything smells faintly of rosemary and bad decisions.

Cass Winter was not in the mood for a French villa.

She had deadlines, a dodgy knee, and the last time she tried to drive on the right side of the road she’d accidentally parked in a fountain. But apparently, her great-aunt Iris had passed away and left her La Maison du Hérisson, a once-grand property in the hills of Provence. And so, armed with nothing but SPF 50 and mild resentment, Cass arrived.

It was hotter than she expected. And louder. Especially in the garden, where someone was swearing in French and violently attacking an olive tree.

She squinted.

He was shirtless. Tanned. And wielding garden shears like they owed him money.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” he barked, in the polished English of someone who’d once dated a model named Saskia.

Cass raised a brow. “And you are?”

“I live here,” he snapped. “Who the hell are you?”

Meet Luc Brousseau, disgruntled former chef, current squatter, and all-round beautifully difficult man.

It turned out Iris had taken him in after he “quit” (read: was fired from) a Michelin-starred kitchen in Lyon for seducing a critic and flambéing her handbag. She let him stay in the guesthouse in exchange for cooking and grumpiness.

And now? Now the guesthouse had no formal deed. And Luc had no intention of leaving.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said over dinner that night, ladling cassoulet into bowls like a man who knew exactly what he was worth. “Unless you drag me out in handcuffs.”

Cass smiled sweetly. “Don’t tempt me.”

The first week was war. Passive-aggressive Post-it notes on the fridge. Loud music at strategic times. He cooked at midnight. She reorganised the pantry just to upset him.

But then… something shifted.

It began with wine. Then a storm. Then her power went out and he “reluctantly” invited her to sleep on his sofa. One glass of Châteauneuf-du-Pape became two. Then his hand was on her thigh. Then her dress was on the floor.

He kissed like he argued—deliberately, intensely, and with far too much tongue.

“Still want me gone?” he growled, half-naked, pinning her against the ancient stone wall.

“Ask me again tomorrow,” she gasped.

In the morning, she found a croissant, a perfectly brewed coffee, and a note:

Keep the villa.
I’ll keep the guesthouse.
We’ll share the rest.
—L

She sipped the coffee, watching him prune a fig tree shirtless. Again.

Cass smiled.

The inheritance wasn’t the only thing that needed handling delicately.

The End.

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Plus-One Problems: A Risqué Fake Dating Romance at a Hen Do – A Mills and Swoon Short

 📘 She needed a fake boyfriend for 48 hours. What she got was robes, rooftop kisses, and something suspiciously close to feelings.

Plus-One Problems by Mills and Swoon

Lydia March didn’t believe in weddings, commitment, or eating gluten before noon. But she did believe in being a very good friend, which is how she found herself at a country spa hotel in the Cotswolds surrounded by 12 women named things like Ashleigh and Gabs, clutching a Prosecco flute, and pretending not to panic.

“You didn’t bring a plus one?” Gabs asked, faux-concerned, eyelash extensions fluttering like a threatened peacock.

“I did,” Lydia said smoothly, even though she absolutely hadn’t. “He’s just—parking.”

“Oh. He drove you?” Gabs’ tone suggested this was code for something deeply erotic.

“Mmm,” Lydia replied, sipping her drink. “Manual.”

The problem was, this was a lie. A big, juicy one. And now she had roughly twenty minutes to produce a man from thin air, or spend the weekend as that girl—the one still “focusing on her career” while everyone else was comparing ring sizes.

She was mid-strategy (Plan A: fake gastroenteritis, Plan B: fake Buddhism) when the hotel door swung open and salvation walked in wearing motorcycle boots and an expression like he’d rather be hit by traffic.

He was tall. Rugged. Slightly damp. And holding a helmet.

Lydia moved fast.

“Sweetheart!” she called, with confidence born of too many gin tonics and not enough therapy. “There you are.”

He blinked. “I’m sorry?”

She leaned in, touched his arm. “Listen, I’ll explain later, but I need you to be my boyfriend for 48 hours or I’m going to be matched with someone called Callum who runs a beard oil company.”

He paused. Looked her up and down. Nodded once.

“I’m in,” he said. “But I get full spa access.”

He introduced himself as Nico. She had no idea if that was real. She didn’t care. He said things like “Shall we?” and held doors open and made Gabs visibly sweat. It was glorious.

By the time the bridal brunch began, Lydia and Nico had a whole backstory. They’d “met on a train.” He was “in sustainable architecture.” She was “softening.”

They spent the afternoon in matching robes, pretending to argue about houseplants and then accidentally winning the couple’s yoga class with an improvised pose called The Distracted Otter.

In the sauna, he leaned close. “You’re enjoying this.”

She smirked. “Fake love is so much better than the real kind. No heartbreak, no laundry.”

“Plenty of steam, though,” he said, eyes not quite innocent.

That evening, after the hen games (Pin the Tail on the Fireman, emotional damage edition), Lydia found herself in Nico’s suite, half in her dress, half on his lap, all tension.

“Tell me something true,” she whispered, fingers in his hair.

He kissed her like it was his job.

“Okay,” he said against her mouth. “I hate weddings.”

She smiled. “I think I love you.”

“Don’t,” he warned.

“Too late,” she said, and pulled him down with her.

By Sunday afternoon, they were both sunburnt, sore, and suspiciously quiet.

As the girls piled into taxis, Gabs cornered her. “So. Nico. Will we see him again?”

Lydia shrugged. “Maybe. He’s got a thing in Finland. Or Bristol. Or… something.”

Nico walked by, winked, and disappeared behind the check-out desk. She wasn’t sure if she’d ever see him again.

But she’d never look at a spa robe—or a man holding a motorcycle helmet—the same way again.

The End.

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