Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The manuscript sat open on the screen in front of her.

Or rather... the lack of a manuscript.

Penelope had rewritten the first chapter six times over the past three months.

Every attempt felt false and flat. In the past hour, she managed to produce only the written equivalent of lukewarm tea.

Penelope Featherington had built an entire literary career writing beautiful, emotional, thought-provoking fiction. And now, after three bestselling novels and more literary praise than she had ever imagined receiving as a teenager scribbling stories into notebooks, Penelope could barely write a sentence at all.

With a sigh, she dragged her hands over her face and leaned back in her chair.

Her Bloomsbury flat was never truly quiet. The distant traffic, the muffled footsteps in the hall, and the faint hum of the radiator that seemed to get louder whenever she was failing.

Which, lately, was often…

On the desk before her lay the remains of a long battle with inspiration. Three abandoned printouts, one open notebook, two uncapped pens, her laptop glowing tauntingly, and a cup of tea that had gone cold long enough ago to become insulting.

Penelope glanced again at the page.

And for a reckless moment, she thought maybe she really could believe in happy endings.

She physically recoiled.

“Oh, absolutely not…”

She deleted the sentence so violently she nearly broke the backspace key.

A sharp knock sounded at the front door.

Penelope didn’t move at first. If it was Eloise, she would let herself in. If it was the landlord, she already sent her payment. If it was anyone else, Penelope felt no moral responsibility to be available.

The knock came again, louder this time, followed by the sound of someone trying the handle.

Penelope looked up, narrowing her eyes.

A moment later the door swung open, and Colin Bridgerton strode into her flat.

He was carrying a white bakery box tied with string in one hand and grinning like a man who had never been troubled in his life.

Penelope sat up too quickly. “Colin! You can’t just break into my house like that!”

“Yes, I can,” he said easily. “And it’s not breaking in when you gave me a key.” He dangled the key in question.

“I gave you a key for emergencies.”

“Yes,” Colin said, shutting the door behind him with his hip. “And I am experiencing one now!”

Her gaze dropped to the box in his hand before she could stop it. “What is that?”

He ignored the question. Instead, his grin widened as he held up the box. “Your favourite éclairs.”

Penelope’s heart gave a small, humiliating flutter.

“From Moreau’s?” she asked.

“Of course from Moreau’s.” He crossed the room and set the box carefully on the edge of her desk, moving a stack of papers aside with a thoughtless familiarity that ought to have annoyed her more than it did.

“Chocolate, as requested by the silent pleading in your soul.”

“I didn’t request anything.”

“No, but your face outside Moreau’s last month did.”

Penelope tried very hard not to smile. “You are—”

“The bestest best friend you have in the entire world?” he said, dragging a chair around and dropping into it backwards, his arms folded over the backrest. “Why yes, yes I am.”

He looked infuriatingly good. Why he decided to wear a black Henley today that was perfectly hugging his damned chest and biceps was beyond her.  His sunglasses hung at the opening of his shirt, showing the perfect amount of chest hair. That Bridgerton brown lock of hair that always curled perfectly no matter what he did pissed her off.

That was the first problem.

The second was he had to be a successful food and travel influencer with her sisters’ husbands Albion and Harry, with at least 4 million followers on YouTube and more across IG and TikTok. The Hungry Boys, they called themselves. It was a perfect combination of informational, comedic, and thirst-trap that had people from all over the world tuning in.

It was very irritating of him to belong so naturally to movement and freedom while she remained here, trapped in front of a desk and a chapter she could not bring herself to finish.

Penelope set her pen down. “What have you done?”

His brows lifted. “What an unfair way to greet a friend bearing dessert.”

“A friend bearing dessert is rarely innocent.”

“I am wounded.”

“You will pull through.”

“Possibly…” he leaned in. “Depending on your answer.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Colin…”

“You’re coming with me.”

Penelope blinked at him. “What?”

“On the tour.”

The tour in question was a big tour where The Hungry Boys would travel across Europe sampling the best cheeses of the continent. It was Albie’s greatest triumph, but it was also, for all of them, their biggest sponsored tour to date.

And he wanted her to tag along.

She stared.

He stared back with a wide grin plastered on his face.

Finally she said, “No.”

“Penelope.”

“No.”

“Please, Pen.” He pouted.

Colin actually pouted.

It was absurd. Offensive, even. A grown man ought not to possess a mouth so unfairly suited to manipulation. This was why he was never punished as a kid.

She looked away at once. “Stop.”

“I haven’t even made my case!” He sighed loudly.

“You don’t need to. The answer is still no.”

“Why?”

“Because,” she said, waving a hand vaguely at her desk. “I work. Because I have deadlines. Because normal people don’t abandon the city to trail after internet-famous men eating for a living.”

His pout deepened. “That is a grotesquely reductive description of my profession.”

“Am I wrong?”

“We do way more than eat.”

“Yes, I am sure there are camera angles involved.”

He laughed, and she hated that the sound softened something in her chest.

Colin crossed his arms. “Harry and Albie are bringing Prudence and Philippa.”

Penelope frowned. “Why is that relevant?”

“Because I’ll be the odd man out.”

“Sounds like a you problem.”

His pouting returned at once. “You haven’t even considered it.”

“I’m considering it now. It’s not going to work.”

“Why not?”

Because you standing in my flat holding my favourite éclairs and looking at me as if I am the answer to a question you have only just thought to ask is dangerous.

Instead she said, “Because I’m busy.”

“With this?” He glanced at the scattered pages on her desk.

“Yes, with this.”

Colin reached out and took one of her drafts, before she could stop him. Penelope lunged, but he had already lifted it, eyes scanning the first paragraph.

“Oh, this is good...”

“No it’s not.”

“But—”

“I’m stuck!” She nearly growled,  “I have been for a fucking long time…”

The words slipped out before she could stop it. Something in Colin’s face shifted.

He set the page down gently this time. “Then come with me.”

Penelope gave a short laugh. “That’s not a solution…”

“It might be.”

“To what?”

“To you looking as though you haven’t enjoyed writing a sentence in months.”

She hated him a little for seeing it.

He went on more softly, “Come on the tour. France, Italy, Spain, Switzerland… ridiculous quantities of cheese, excellent wine. My friend Julien is guiding us. My other friend Lorenzo is joining us in Italy. I’ll be acting like a fool, and you can laugh at my expense. It will be good for you.”

“That is a terrible pitch.”

“It’s working.” He winked.

“It’s not.” She huffed.

“It’s almost working.”

Penelope folded her arms tightly, trying to ignore the small part of her that had leapt awake at the idea of getting away from London. At Julien and Lorenzo from Colin’s videos that always made his world feel larger than the one she lived in. At the image of him abroad, his adorable laugh beneath foreign sunlight.

She had no business wanting any part of that.

“You are asking me to join your little cheese circus,” she said.

“It’s not little.”

“Excuse me, your enormous cheese circus.”

“Yup.”

“Why me?”

There was a long pause. His fingers tapped against the chair back.

“Because I want you there.”

There it was again, that earnest, almost boyish, open look on his face that did her in every time. From the day she met him, she knew she would never really be able to resist him. But damn it if that had ever stopped her from trying.

“You have millions of fans online, Colin. Surely one of them would happily volunteer to accompany you across Europe.”

A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Ah. So you have noticed my admirers.”

“I have unfortunately been made aware of your fans by the entire internet.”

“But you’re my favourite fan.”

Her heart skipped.

Colin rose from the chair and came around the desk and perched on its edge beside the pastry box.

“Pen… come with me.”

She looked down at her draft, at the crossed-out pages that sat on the page like a personal insult.

Then she looked at the éclairs.

Then, against her better judgment, at Colin.

His eyes were hopeful, warm, and entirely too certain that she could still be persuaded.

Penelope exhaled slowly. “I said no.”

Colin paused before smiling. But you are thinking about it.”

She hated that he was right.

He hopped off the desk. “Perfect! That is all I need for now.”

She rolled her eyes. “You are annoying.”

He leaned in. “But you love me.”

The words slipped out of him carelessly. It was the sort of thing he often said.

Even so, Penelope’s heart stuttered so hard it was a miracle he didn’t hear it.

Because the words were true… and he didn’t know how true they were.

Colin didn’t know what his words did to her. How it could make her heart soar or crash. Just like that night out when he said he’d never date her.

And yet she could never let him go.

Because Colin was… Colin.

He reached for the string around the bakery box and began untying it. “You should at least have one before you reject me. It feels only civil.”

Penelope watched him open the box, sunlight catching in his hair, her ruined afternoon rearranging itself around his presence before she could stop it.

This was a terrible idea.

Which was perhaps why, as he handed her a napkin with that beautiful smile of his, she found herself wondering not whether she would go, but how long she could possibly pretend she would not.

Penelope woke to six unread messages, two missed calls, and a video of a sunlit street in the south of France where flower boxes spilled over white stone walls and someone in the background was laughing in Italian for reasons that made no geographical sense.

Colin: This could be YOU.

Penelope stared at the message from beneath her duvet, unimpressed.

Then her phone buzzed again.

A second video. This one of a vineyard stretched over low rolling hills, all green and gold in the late afternoon light.

Colin: Imagine yourself here, Pen. A book in hand. A glass of wine. Looking mysterious and literary while I heroically consume local dairy.

A third message followed immediately.

Colin: I can’t be the fifth wheel, Pen!

Penelope dropped her phone onto the bed beside her and pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes.

By the time she sat down at her desk two hours later, she received three more messages, one photograph of an absurdly beautiful hotel balcony, and a voice note in which Colin claimed, with grave seriousness, that the fate of international content depended upon her cooperation.

She had not replied to that one at all.

Which was why she found herself that afternoon in Agatha Danbury’s office, meant to be discussing deadlines and instead was forced to talk about Colin’s request.

Penelope pushed up her glasses for what felt like the hundredth time and sighed for what felt like the thousandth time.

“I can’t go.”

She watched as Agatha paced the room. Her perfectly tailored magenta coat was vivid against the darker wood panelling and towering bookshelves.

On the desk between them sat Penelope’s latest draft, marked in red and left untouched for the moment in favour of what Agatha had clearly decided was the more pressing matter.

“And why,” Agatha asked, “can’t you go?”

Penelope let out a disbelieving breath. “Because I have work!”

Agatha gave her a look.

“Yes, actual work,” Penelope said. “Deadlines. A novel to finish. A whole fanbase waiting for it.”

Agatha said nothing.

That was often worse than her speaking.

Penelope pressed on. “It’s a sponsored cheese tour, Agatha.”

“Yes.”

“With Colin.”

“Yes.”

“And Harry and Albie.”

“Yes.”

“And apparently Prudence and Philippa.”

Agatha arched a brow. “That does sound trying.”

“It is not only trying,” Penelope said. “It is humiliating. They will all be coupled off, and I’ll be there for what reason, exactly? To hold Colin’s extra camera battery? To lurk in the background while people on the internet post thirsty comments under videos of him eating burrata?”

A pause.

Then, with no loyalty whatsoever, Agatha smiled.

Penelope narrowed her eyes. “Don’t laugh at me, Agatha.”

“I did not laugh.”

“You nearly did.”

“I am thinking fondly.”

“That’s worse.”

Agatha resumed pacing, hands loosely folded behind her back. “Tell me this. When was the last time you wrote something that excited you?”

Penelope did not answer.

“When was the last time,” Agatha continued, “you wanted to chase a sentence rather than drag it behind you?”

Still Penelope said nothing.

Outside, somewhere beyond the tall windows, a siren wailed and faded. The office felt too warm. Too quiet.

Agatha stopped in front of the fireplace and looked her directly in the eye. “You are tired.”

“I’m not tired.”

“You are bored, then.”

Penelope exhaled sharply through her nose. “I don’t need a holiday, Agatha.”

“No,” Agatha said. “You need to live.”

Penelope blinked.

Agatha softened, only slightly. “You have spent months writing about other people living. Go and live a little yourself.”

The words landed with more force than they ought to have.

Penelope looked away first. “It’s not that simple,” she said after a moment. “He asked me because Harry and Albie are bringing their wives.”

Agatha’s mouth twitched. “Yes. I gathered.”

“And he says he cannot be the fifth wheel.”

At that, Agatha actually did laugh.

Penelope groaned. “You see?”

“I see a man making an extremely transparent argument.”

“He’s being dramatic.”

“He is being a Bridgerton.”

There was, annoyingly, very little to say to that.

Penelope picked at the cuff of her sleeve. “I can’t tell whether he actually wants me there or whether I’m simply the most convenient unmarried woman in his orbit.”

Agatha was quiet long enough that Penelope risked looking up.

When she did, she found her boss watching her with maddening perception. Agatha crossed back to her desk and leaned one hand against it. “You know what I think?”

“I suspect I am about to.”

“I think you want to go.”

Penelope opened her mouth, then closed it.

Agatha smiled. “Precisely.”

Penelope pushed up her glasses again. “Violet told you about the tour, didn’t she?”

Agatha said nothing for a beat.

Then she winked.

Penelope dropped her head into one hand. “Unbelievable. She’s been plotting.”

“She has been informed,” Agatha corrected.

“Which fuels her plotting.”

Agatha sat at last. “Okay, let us be practical. You can send me notes, drafts, any usable scraps. If Europe offers you something, by all means exploit it. If it offers you inspiration, even better.”

Penelope frowned. “You are genuinely giving me permission to go on a cheese tour.”

“I am ordering you to go on a cheese tour.”

“That seems an abuse of authority.”

“I have never once pretended otherwise.”

Despite herself, Penelope laughed.

Agatha’s expression gentled. “Go, my dear.”

Penelope looked at the draft on the desk, then at her phone beside it lying face down. No doubt another message waited there.

Penelope swallowed. “If this ends terribly, I’ll blame you.” She rose to get up, picking up her phone.

Agatha gave a languid wave of one hand. “You may dedicate your next novel to me. Maybe name your firstborn child after me too.”

“Of course, boss.” She rolled her eyes and walked out the door. She stepped back out into the hall and leaned against the wall, letting out a long sigh before beginning to type.

Penelope: You are the most persistent man alive.

His reply came almost instantly.

Colin: Is that a yes?

Penelope smiled despite herself, already regretting everything.

Penelope: It is a provisional yes.

The dots appeared.

Disappeared.

Appeared again.

Then:

Colin: PENELOPE ANNE FEATHERINGTON

Colin: YOU WILL NOT REGRET THIS

She huffed out a laugh and started down the stairs.

That, she thought, remained to be seen.

By the time they boarded the flight to Paris, Penelope had already witnessed Albie argue with Harry about regional cheddar, Philippa voicing her concerns about French traffic circles because they drove on the other side of the road, Prudence disappearing into three separate airport shops before they had even reached security, and Colin charm at least ten fans without appearing remotely aware he was doing it.

The Hungry Boys operated like a well-oiled machine. Harry handled luxury dining experiences and was a pro at filming and production. Albie mapped out dive bars, hole-in-the-wall spots, and pubs, and, of course, was their resident cheese expert.

And Colin somehow held the entire thing together. He organised nearly all of the travel logistics. He remembered train schedules without checking them, found tiny cafés hidden down side streets, and guided conversations forward with effortless ease. And he had easily become their resident expert in pastries and desserts worldwide.

Charming, handsome, and knowledgeable.

It was kind of irritating.

Somewhere over the Channel, Philippa fell asleep across Albie’s lap and onto Prudence, who complained loudly before adjusting the blanket over her anyway.

Harry immediately took a photo.

“You are not posting that online,” Prudence warned without opening her eyes.

“No promises, my love!” Harry kissed her on the cheek.

Beside Penelope, Colin laughed softly before eventually falling asleep himself, his head resting against her shoulder. Penelope spent most of the flight pretending her heart was behaving normally.

And now—Paris.

“Right,” Colin began as they gathered their luggage. “We’ve got a car waiting and—”

“Colin.”

An accented voice cut smoothly through the noise.

Penelope turned.

Julien Dubois stood a few steps away, one hand tucked neatly into the pocket of a tailored coat, the other lifting in greeting.

Penelope recognised him instantly from the videos.

The blond Frenchman appeared frequently in Hungry Boys episodes. An expert in all things French. Fluent in what seemed like half the languages in Europe and some more elsewhere. Vastly knowledgeable in history, art, architecture, and apparently every wine region on earth.

“Julien!” Colin crossed the terminal quickly and pulled him into a hug. “Always exactly where I need you.”

Penelope had heard the stories before.

Or rather, dozens of versions of them.

Years ago, Colin was restless and needed to escape the expectations of his family. So he travelled the world with far too much confidence and not nearly enough caution. There were missed trains, incorrect bookings, and translation mishaps.

And then Julien appeared, as Colin once dramatically described it, “like a very well-dressed act of divine intervention”, somehow saving Colin from whatever disaster he wandered into. Colin always credited Julien with teaching him how to travel properly.

“But of course,” Julien replied dryly, “this entire operation would collapse without me.”

His attention shifted toward Penelope.

“And you must be Penelope...”

He stepped forward smoothly, taking her hand and brushing a kiss against her knuckles.

“Bienvenue à Paris.”

Her stomach flipped.

It was the way his blonde curls framed his intense green eyes. The elegant French charm. Up close, the effect was far more compelling than in videos.

“Thank you…” She managed to breathe out.

“It is wonderful to finally meet you.” His smile widened slightly. “Parlez-vous français?”

“Un peu,” Penelope admitted.

“Then I shall improve it,” he said lightly. “Consider me your guide. In culture, history and language, in France, and, should you allow it, in every place we go.”

Penelope huffed a laugh. “It might be an impossible task.”

“I enjoy impossible tasks.” Julien winked.

Penelope smiled.

Colin did not.

It was subtle. The faint tightening at the corner of his mouth.

But Penelope knew him well enough to notice.

“Come,” Julien said easily. “The van is waiting. And I have an entire city to show you.”

As they followed him outside, Colin caught up beside Julien and immediately began speaking rapid French. Penelope caught almost none of it. Only the tone. Julien sounded amused. Colin sounded annoyed.

Which should not have distracted her nearly as much as it did.

Neither should the French itself. It was the  effortless way it rolled off Colin’s tongue…

Her stomach flipped again.

Which was ridiculous.

Completely ridiculous.

And still, she felt a flicker of heat.

The cheese wouldn't be her undoing on this trip...

It would be Colin Bridgerton's mouth.

They barely paused long enough at the hotel to register that it was, in fact, beautiful. Suitcases were dropped. Doors were opened and closed. Philippa gasped loudly at the balcony view. Prudence immediately claimed the best mirror. Harry checked filming schedules. Albie sampled all the complimentary snacks within minutes. And Colin was already moving.

“We’ve got thirty minutes,” he announced, checking his phone. “First location is ready.”

“Thirty minutes?” Penelope repeated.

“Plenty of time,” Colin replied easily. “Shoes. Phone. Mild emotional resilience. You’ll survive.”

“I don’t even know where we’re going.”

They had just arrived, and it already felt completely disorienting.

Colin winked, “That’s the fun of it.”

“Fun?”

“It’s Paris.” He gestured vaguely toward the window as if that answered the question.

Annoyingly, it did.

Penelope sat beside the window in the van, watching the city slide past in flashes of cream-coloured buildings, wrought-iron balconies, tiny cafés spilling onto sidewalks, and people who somehow looked elegant as they simply existed.

Beside her, Colin had already slipped fully into filming mode.

“Alright,” he announced brightly to the camera. “Paris, day one! Back in my second home!”

Harry immediately leaned into frame. “Second home where he almost got arrested.”

Penelope burst out laughing. She knew exactly where this was going.

Colin groaned dramatically. “We are not telling this story again...”

“Oh, we absolutely are,” Harry grinned at the camera as he wagged his eyebrows.

Albie popped into frame. “The Paris Incident.”

“It was not an incident.” Colin quickly shot back.

“It involved police,” Harry countered.

“That sounds like more than an incident,” Prudence noted dryly.

Philippa gasped. “Wait. This is the handcuff story?”

“There were no handcuffs,” Colin said quickly.

“There was plenty of paperwork though,” Julien added from the front seat.

Penelope was already grinning.

The story had become legendary years ago after Colin attempted to argue with a station official in what he believed was fluent French. It had not been fluent French.

“It was one mistranslation,” Colin defended.

“You accidentally implied the station was participating in organised theft,” Julien replied.

Harry and Albie completely lost it.

“And then he doubled down!” Albie gasped with laughter.

“I panicked.”

Philippa looked genuinely impressed. “That’s very revolutionary of you.”

“Thank you,” Colin replied immediately.

“That was not a compliment,” Prudence muttered.

Penelope shook her head, laughing. “And then Julien had to rescue you before you accidentally declared war on France.”

Colin pointed accusingly at her. “Stop enjoying this.”

“Oh, absolutely not.”

“You’ve held this over me for years.”

“And I still will now.”

Colin narrowed his eyes at her. Then, without warning, his hand landed on her thigh.

“Traitor…” he muttered while squeezing her leg.

The contact lasted barely a second, but it still sent heat rushing through her so quickly it was embarrassing. Penelope went completely still.

Colin, seemingly oblivious to what he had just done to her nervous system, lifted the camera again.

“For the record,” he announced, “since Julien saved me from international disgrace, I have not made a single translation or travel mistake.”

There was a beat.

Julien laughed first.

Then Harry.

Then all of them.

“Oi!” Colin protested, reaching over to smack Harry lightly on the head. “Keep laughing and see if I help any of you navigate Europe!”

“Just don’t jinx yourself,” Prudence chuckled.

Philippa leaned into frame. “I still think almost getting arrested in Paris sounds romantic!”

Penelope laughed softly. “The trip has barely started…”

Harry grinned. “Give it time.”

The car slowed several streets later outside a narrow storefront tucked between a flower shop and a tiny café with fogged windows.

“This,” Julien announced smoothly, “is where we begin.”

Fromagerie Laurent Dubois.

“Dubois?” Penelope asked.

“My uncle,” Julien nodded with a smile. “Meilleur Ouvrier de France.”

“What does that mean?” Philippa asked immediately.

“It means,” Harry said gravely, “we are about to become unbearable.”

“You already are unbearable…” Prudence corrected.

Inside, the shop smelled rich and earthy. Rows of cheeses lined the displays like carefully curated art. Soft rounds nestled into straw. Large wheels stacked neatly against stone walls. Tiny handwritten signs marked regions Penelope had never heard of.

Laurent Dubois stood behind the counter, sleeves neatly rolled, posture relaxed but assured, with the quiet authority of someone entirely at home in his craft.

“Mon oncle,” Julien greeted warmly.

Colin stepped forward, French flowing easily as he thanked Laurent for having them. He gestured to each of the group in turn as he made introductions.  

“And this,” Colin said, his hand briefly finding Penelope’s back as he guided her forward, “is Penelope. She’s a brilliant writer, so if any of us sound intelligent today, that’s her influence, not ours.”

Heat rose unexpectedly in her cheeks.

The boys quickly set up their equipment, and soon enough, Albie launched.

“My friends, this is not just any cheese shop!” he said to the camera, already glowing with excitement. “We are at Laurent Dubois, MOF winner. Meilleur Ouvrier de France. That is the best craftsman in France. This is elite. This is history. This is where we begin if we’re doing this properly!”

Harry sighed instantly. “We’ve lost him already.”

Albie ignored him completely.

“Okay,” he said, visibly trying to restrain himself. “Let’s start simple. Texture, smell, ageing process. What should beginners understand first?”

Laurent answered thoughtfully, and Julien translated.

“And rind development?” Albie interrupted immediately. “Because this level of microbial control is insane. Are you intentionally pushing these toward peak expression?”

Julien blinked as he paused for a moment, but he translated anyway.

“And how do you build balance in a case like this?” Albie continued rapidly. “Because this isn’t random. There’s structure. Narrative. Movement.”

“I don’t think anyone has ever described cheese as narrative before,” Harry muttered.

“They should!” Albie exclaimed.

Colin snorted, and Julien pinched the bridge of his nose.

“If he asks one more question with three clauses,” he informed Colin in French, “I am charging you by the sentence.”

Colin grinned. “You love it.”

Julien sighed. “I tolerate it for you.”

Meanwhile Albie had fully entered what Prudence later described as a state of “Cheese Flow.”

“You can taste confidence in this rind,” he declared passionately.

“Cheese is emotional,” Philippa nodded solemnly.

“Thank you, my love!” Albie smiled at his wife.

When he continued, he gestured too enthusiastically and nearly knocked over an entire display.

Julien caught it one-handed without even looking away from Laurent. Harry burst out laughing. Laurent smiled calmly.

“These are excellent questions,” he said.

In perfect English.

Silence.

Then Harry completely lost control. Colin bent over laughing. Prudence walked away. Penelope’s jaw dropped.

Albie blinked. “You understood me this entire time?”

“Yes.”

“All of it?”

“Yes.”

Julien looked betrayed. “You let me suffer on purpose...”

Laurent only smiled wider.

And somehow that made everyone laugh even harder.

The tasting itself devolved rapidly after that.

Philippa looked as if she were examining an ancient specimen before she bit the cheese. She nodded then paused.

“Oh, yes.”

“Yes?” Penelope asked.

“This one is dependable.”

“Dependable? It’s cheese,” Prudence frowned at the cheese in question.

“But you can tell. This one would never betray you.”

“How could cheese betray—"

Philippa pointed at another cheese on the board. “That one would ruin your life.”

Penelope laughed. “Like a toxic ex?”

“Yes. So good and yet so dangerous for you.”

“Try this,” Laurent said, offering a stronger cheese.

Philippa smelled it and immediately recoiled.

“…that smells like a mistake.”

"Pippy! You can't say that—" Prudence gasped as her eyes flitted over to Laurent.

Harry snorted into his hand.

“Take a bite,” Albie said with a smirk.

Philippa took a bite, and her face went through a whole journey. “…Oh.…oh no. Wait… oh wow.”

Prudence tried it next. She paused. “…I hate that I like it.”

“Character development!” Harry said brightly.

“What did I tell you about narrative?” Albie asked triumphantly.

Penelope grinned, “As a writer, I believe you now.”

Across the room, Colin lowered the camera slightly and looked at her.

“Having a good time?” he asked softly.

Penelope glanced around the tiny shop.

At Philippa debating morally questionable cheese.

At Prudence pretending not to care while quietly sliding Penelope cheeses that suited her taste.

At Albie speaking about ageing techniques like a man discovering religion.

At Harry barely holding the production together through laughter.

And Colin somehow watching everyone at once without missing anything. It looked effortless until you paid close enough attention to see the work underneath it.

And suddenly Penelope understood.

This was why he loved it. The places. The people. The strange little moments that revealed something true about all of them.

Her fingers itched suddenly for a notebook and pen.

Paris became a whirlwind of markets, cheese shops, and tiny cafés tucked into side streets. Albie nearly cried over brie. Harry filmed while making commentary with impeccable comedic timing. Prudence shopped as if it were an Olympic event. Philippa ranked fountains based on water flow.

And somewhere in the middle of all that chaos, she felt inspired.

Because suddenly she could feel stories everywhere.

The way people moved through unfamiliar places. The strange intimacy of shared travel. The way Colin always turned toward her first whenever something amazing happened.

On the third day, Colin knocked on her door that morning.

“Let’s go, Pen! Paris awaits!”

“Where are we going?” She asked as she picked up her purse.

“You’ll see,” Colin smirked.

He did not elaborate.

Which was how she found herself standing outside a small café tucked into a quiet side street lined with overflowing flower boxes and tiny wrought-iron balconies.

The café itself looked quintessentially Parisian.

Small round tables crowded beneath striped awnings. Fogged windows glowed softly from within. The scent of butter, espresso, and fresh bread drifted out every time the door opened. A handwritten menu sat outside beside overflowing pots of lavender.

“This,” Colin said with confidence as he pushed open the door for her, “is the best croissant in Paris.”

“That feels like a bold claim.”

“You already know I’ve been to them all.” He winked at her.

She chuckled because she knew he absolutely had.

The moment they stepped inside, a woman behind the counter looked up from arranging pastries and lit up immediately. She had beautiful dark skin and black hair pulled elegantly back.

“Colin, you are back!” she exclaimed warmly in accented English.

Colin grinned instantly. “Thérèse...”

The older woman came around the counter without hesitation to kiss both of his cheeks affectionately.

“You disappear for months and suddenly return with a beautiful woman,” she scolded dramatically. “Typical.”

Penelope nearly choked.

“Thérèse,” Colin laughed helplessly, “this is Penelope. Pen, this is Thérèse Lavalle. She is a Parisian legend, and she also makes the most amazing croissants.”

Thérèse’s entire expression softened immediately as she turned toward her.

“Ah,” she said knowingly.

Penelope blinked. “Ah?”

Thérèse shot Colin a look filled with far too much amusement.

“He talks about you.”

Colin looked briefly horrified.

Penelope felt warmth rise rapidly into her cheeks.

“I do not,” Colin argued.

“You do,” Thérèse corrected easily. “The writer.”

Penelope stared at him.

Colin suddenly seemed very interested in the pastry display.

Thérèse smiled triumphantly before waving them toward a tiny table near the window.

“For you,” she announced, already reaching for pastries, “the good croissants.”

Once she took one bite and closed her eyes, Penelope understood completely.

Colin watched her.

“There it is,” he said softly.

“There it is what?”

“The moment you realise I’m right.”

She rolled her eyes as she took another bite. “Don’t get used to it.”

"I would never." Colin grinned.

And somehow, without either of them meaning to, their croissant stop stretched longer than it should have.

They lingered at the little café table long after the plates had been cleared. People drifted past in steady currents, cyclists weaving through narrow streets, waiters balancing trays between crowded tables, snippets of French conversation rising and falling around them like background music.

The word ‘romantic’ popped up in her head...

Penelope refused to call it that.

But there was something intimate about sitting there with Colin while the city moved around them. Just conversation that moved naturally from one thing to another without effort.

Books. Funny stories about their siblings. Travel disasters. The strange confidence of Parisian pigeons.

Colin pointed out that people sometimes quietly invent stories about them, until Penelope joined in, building on them with increasingly dramatic detail.

“That man is absolutely having an affair,” Colin murmured at one point, nodding subtly toward an impeccably dressed older man crossing the street with a bouquet tucked beneath one arm.

Penelope followed his gaze thoughtfully. “No,” she decided after a second. “Recently divorced. Trying to seem mysterious about it.”

Colin hummed. “Ah. Of course.”

“She’s the love of his life,” Penelope continued, warming to it now. “He realised it too late, naturally. Now he’s plotting some grand romantic gesture to win her back.”

“And will it work?” Colin asked seriously.

Penelope glanced toward the man again before shaking her head. “No. He’ll fail spectacularly.”

Colin studied her over the rim of his espresso. “Have you ever considered a happy ending?”

She looked at him, amused. “Rarely. They’re usually unbearably cheesy.”

Colin smiled into his coffee. “You are literally on a cheese tour right now.”

Penelope immediately reached across the tiny café table to swat his arm.

“That is not the same thing, and you know it.”

“Hm.” There was something thoughtful in the sound.

Then he smiled lightly, looking back out toward the street. “Maybe with the right inspiration it can be interesting.”

Penelope rolled her eyes. “That is an overly optimistic thing to say.”

He laughed softly, and the late morning sunlight caught in his deep blue eyes, brightening them with a warm glint that made her stomach flip.

“What can I say?” he said lightly. “I love a good love story.”

The museum came next.

The Musée d'Orsay.

Penelope had wanted to come here for years.

She stopped just outside it, her steps slowing instinctively as she took in the familiar stone façade and tall glass entrance she had seen a hundred times before in articles, photographs, documentaries, half-finished stories she had once tried to write. People moved in and out around them in quiet currents, voices blending together beneath the echo of the courtyard.

For a second she simply stared.

It felt strange, standing in front of something that had existed in her imagination for so long.

“You—” she turned to him. “How did you—?”

“You mentioned it years ago,” he said simply.

She stared at him.

“You remembered that?”

He shrugged, like it was nothing. “It mattered to you.”

At that, her heart couldn’t help but skip.

They wandered slowly, drifting from room to room, stopping when something caught their attention and staying longer than they intended. Penelope found herself talking without thinking, making observations, half-formed thoughts, and commentary that Colin complimented naturally.  

But maybe that part should not have surprised her as much as it did.

They had always been like this.

Even as children, they had built entire conversations out of half-glances and unfinished thoughts. Inside jokes no one else understood. Ridiculous stories invented in whispers at dinner parties. Dramatic observations about people at a boring London function.

They had always spoken the same language somehow.

A glance that meant something. A comment that didn’t need explanation. A shared look at a painting that said more than words would have.

What unsettled her most was how natural it all felt in this moment in Paris.

Colin led her through the streets, weaving them through narrow side roads and crowded corners without ever seeming to think about it. And somehow, at some point between the museum and the walk across the river and the effortless conversation that never seemed to run out. Now it felt less like Colin guiding her and more like the two of them experiencing something together.

The bookstore felt like a secret world.

Tucked away on a side street that would have been easy to miss entirely, the bookstore felt narrow and quiet, but once they stepped inside, it was filled with shelves that stretched so high they nearly disappeared into shadow. Books were stacked in uneven towers along the floor and tucked into corners as though the entire place had simply run out of room years ago and decided to keep growing anyway. The air smelled faintly of paper, dust, and old wood warmed by the afternoon sun filtering through the front windows.

Penelope stopped just inside the doorway.

“Oh.”

Colin watched her take it in, something soft settling into his expression.

“I found it on my second trip here,” he said. “And I knew—” he paused, then shook his head slightly, smiling. “I knew I had to bring you.”

She moved deeper into the space slowly, like it might disappear if she went too fast.

Her fingers brushed spines. Titles. Pages.

“This is…” she trailed off.

“Perfect? Incredible? Dangerous?” he offered.

“Yes. All of it.” Penelope bit back a smile.

He laughed quietly.

She turned to him. “You shouldn’t have shown me this. I may never leave.”

“I’m prepared to accept that outcome.”

After dinner they wandered without much direction, letting Paris carry them where it wanted. By the time they reached the Seine, the city had changed again beneath the glow of evening lights. Reflections stretched across the water in long, shifting ribbons of gold while music drifted faintly from somewhere farther down the river. Couples lingered along the bridges. Laughter echoed from crowded cafés. Boats moved slowly through the water.

Everything felt quieter at night, but somehow more alive.

For a while, they walked without speaking, their shoulders brushing every now and then.

“I’m really glad you came,” Colin said eventually.

She glanced at him. “Yes, well, you were very persistent.”

“I was.”

She smiled slightly. “Relentless, even.”

“Strategic.”

“Annoying.”

“Effective.”

She huffed out a laugh.

Then he looked at her again, something quieter in his expression now.

“Yeah,” he said. “Because of this.”

She stilled slightly. “This?”

He gestured vaguely to the river, the lights, the city, and, maybe, to the space between them.

“All of it,” he said. “I wanted to share it with you.”

Something warm settled low in her chest.

Before this trip, when Colin had been practically begging her to come, she thought what he wanted was to show someone from home the life he had built. Proof that he had made something meaningful out of all his wandering.

But over the past few days, she realised something else entirely.

What Colin wanted to do was share this experience.

The tiny café hidden down a side street because he knew she would love it.

The museum she had once mentioned years ago in passing.

The bookstore that felt like it had been pulled directly from her imagination.

He remembered the little details.

That was why she had fallen in love with him when she was a little girl.

And here beside the Seine, with the Eiffel Tower glittering softly in the distance, he was somehow making her fall even deeper.

When she looked back at him, he was already staring at her.

There was something in his eyes she had never seen before. Like he wanted to say something and was not entirely certain how to begin.

“Colin—”

“Sorry, are you Colin Bridgerton of The Hungry Boys?”

They both turned.

A couple stood a few steps away, hesitant but excited, a phone already halfway raised.

Colin blinked once, then smiled easily, stepping back into that familiar version of himself without effort.

“Hi,” he said warmly. “Yeah, that’s me.”

“Do you mind a quick picture?”

“Of course not.”

The moment shattered so quickly it almost made her dizzy.

Penelope stepped back instinctively, suddenly aware again of the people around them, the noise of the city, the cool night air against her skin. Colin moved easily into conversation with the couple, smiling for the picture with the same charm that had made half the internet obsessed with him.

And just like that, she was outside the moment again. Watching it instead of living inside it.

Which, she thought as she folded her arms loosely against the evening chill, was probably safer.

On the train, Penelope took in the rolling hills of the countryside, fields stretching endlessly around them, green and gold, broken only by lines of trees and the occasional stone wall. The small villages looked absolutely picturesque.

“This is ridiculous,” she murmured under her breath.

Colin, beside her, glanced over. “Good ridiculous or bad ridiculous?”

She didn’t look at him. “The best kind of ridiculous.”

The château looked like something from a film.

Naturally, the moment filming began after dinner, Albie immediately got into his “Cheese Flow.”

“We are standing in the middle of dairy perfection,” Albie announced dramatically as they walked through the hills. “This is what cheese is supposed to taste like. Happy cows. Fresh air. Emotional complexity.”

“Emotional complexity?” Harry repeated from behind the camera.

“Yes,” Albie said firmly. “You can taste when a cow has experienced personal growth.”

Everyone gave him a strange look. Harry snorted loudly.

“I’m serious!” he insisted, gesturing widely toward the hills behind them. “You can taste this landscape! Look at it! These cows have perspective. They’ve seen sunsets. They’ve experienced freedom! Happy cows make nuanced cheese!”

Prudence shared a look with Penelope and mumbled, “I’m pretty sure the discourse is bound to get weirder because of all the wine from dinner…” She nodded to Harry, who was red-faced and Colin, who nearly stumbled and sent a camera rolling down the hill.

“We can hear you, you know! That's an un-brie-lievable accusation!” Colin called out.

“Oh yes, far too sharp for my taste!” Harry shook his head vigorously.

Prudence sighed, “I rest my case…”

“Colin! Harry! You two feta take this whole thing seriously!” Albie yelled with a straight face.

“Why? We are hilarious!” Harry shot back. “People cheddar tear up listening to us!”

Penelope groaned. “You’re all insufferable.” Then, before she could stop herself, “Honestly, this entire conversation has become very provolonematic.”

The whole room burst out laughing.

“Not you too, Penny!” Prudence groaned.

Philippa brightened. “Oh! I have one. This whole trip has been really grate so far!”

Prudence rolled her eyes. “You are all embarrassing.”

Philippa looked inspired now. “Oh, we could make a whole list!”

“We absolutely should not,” Prudence warned.

“We’re fon-due-ing it!” Harry clapped.

Prudence nearly shoved her husband down the hill.

Julien, who had been quietly speaking with one of the château staff members nearby, closed his eyes briefly as he muttered about English people. And yet, despite himself, there was obvious amusement tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Penelope caught it immediately. “You like them.”

“I do not,” Julien replied too quickly.

“You do,” Colin said, grinning now.

Julien sighed dramatically, finally turning back toward them. “As a linguist, I appreciate wordplay. That does not mean I approve of it.”

“See?” Colin pointed triumphantly.

Julien paused for a moment then gestured vaguely toward all of them. “You people have truly hit Roquefort bottom.”

Everyone lost their minds. Penelope laughed so hard she cried.

That evening, after wine, candlelight, and far too much laughter, a booking error left Penelope and Colin standing alone at the reception desk and much more sober.

“We believed there were three couples,” the attendant explained apologetically.

Penelope nearly died.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

They simply stared at each other.

Then toward the receptionist.

Then back at each other again.

A completely silent conversation passed between them in the span of seconds.

Surely there was another room.

There was not.

Surely one of them could stay elsewhere.

Absolutely not.

Surely this was some kind of misunderstanding.

The receptionist’s apologetic expression confirmed otherwise.

Colin, infuriatingly calm considering the circumstances, cleared his throat first.

“We’ll figure something out. Thank you so much, Èmilie.” He shot her a warm grin before tugging Pen along with him.

They did not say a word as they made their way to the room. Penelope swore she could hear her own heartbeat in the silence between them.

The room itself was gorgeous. Tall windows overlooking the countryside. Exposed wooden beams crossing the ceiling. A fireplace crackling softly in the corner.

Unfortunately, there was one very obvious problem.

The one bed.

Penelope stared at it.

The universe, she decided, had an absolutely sick sense of humour.

Colin set his luggage down before immediately busying himself adjusting absolutely nothing in particular.

Then finally he spoke up.  “It’s fine, Pen,” he said carefully. “I can take the chaise.”

Penelope followed his gaze toward the chaise against the wall.

The thing looked unsafe. It was comically narrow and far too short even for her. If they sat on it she was positive a leg would break. It also somehow managed to look vaguely haunted.

Absolutely not.

Their eyes met again briefly.

“You’re not sleeping on that,” Penelope said flatly.

“Penelope—”

“We’ve had sleepovers before. This isn’t anything different,” she blurted out far too quickly.

Colin blinked at her. “I mean… if you count movie nights where we all passed out halfway through films on the couch, sure, but—”

“Same thing.”

It absolutely was not the same thing.

The silence that followed seemed to confirm that both of them knew it.

Colin looked at her for another second before finally nodding once.

“Right,” he said quietly.

Which unfortunately only made her more aware of everything.

Colin let her change first. The moment the bathroom door shut behind him, Penelope caught sight of herself in the mirror and immediately looked away.

This was absurd.

Actually absurd.

The fucking one-bed trope.

It sounded exactly like the kind of unbearably cheesy romance setup she mocked constantly in interviews. The kind readers adored, and she refused to write.

Because those stories were fantasies.

Carefully constructed emotional manipulation pretending to be reality. People did not simply fall into bed together and magically confess hidden feelings beneath moonlight.

And Penelope especially could not afford to believe in stories like that. Not when experience had already taught her exactly how heartbreaking loving Colin Bridgerton could be.

By the time Colin emerged from the bathroom, Penelope was already buried beneath the covers with her notebook open in her lap, trying very hard to look normal.

Which might have worked better had she not immediately become aware of Colin standing awkwardly near the bed.

She tried very hard not to look directly at him.

Unfortunately, not looking directly somehow made her more aware of him.

The soft grey t-shirt fit him in all the right places. His damp hair curled slightly at the edges. The fact that he looked unfairly attractive while simply existing .

Penelope stared very aggressively at her notebook.

Colin cleared his throat.

“So…” he said carefully. “What are you writing about?”

Penelope’s mind went completely blank.

Considering her entire career depended on words, this felt humiliating.

“My main character,” Penelope said, gesturing toward the notebook. “She was an anonymous gossip columnist. The Queen discovers her secret and punishes her by sending her on a Grand Tour across Europe to be her spy.”

Colin laughed.

"That's a little different than your usual books. Does she meet interesting people?”

Penelope smiled faintly.

“A few.”

“Any handsome ones?”

She rolled her eyes.

“You are insufferable.”

“That's not a no.”

She nearly laughed despite herself.

Another long silence stretched between them.

Colin still had not moved.

Penelope finally looked up properly, only to find him hovering awkwardly beside the bed like a Regency man being confronted with female ankles for the first time.

Honestly.

This was becoming ridiculous.

Her heart had been beating far too fast since they walked into this room.

Which was ridiculous because this was Colin. Her best friend.

And yet somehow the knowledge that they would be sharing a bed tonight had turned her into a complete idiot.

She couldn't concentrate on her notebook.

Meanwhile, Colin still hadn't moved.

He stood beside the bed, looking almost as uncertain as she felt, which somehow made everything worse.

With an exasperated sigh, she slammed her notebook shut and yanked the duvet open beside her.

“Colin,” she groaned. “Just get in bed already.”

“Right…”

Penelope busied herself with turning off the lamp while Colin slipped beneath the covers. Then she buried herself deeper into the covers quickly, turning onto her side before she could overthink the fact that Colin Bridgerton was now lying beside her.

In her bed.

In their bed.

For a while, neither of them spoke. The fading crackle of the fire was the only sound in the room.

There was absolutely no way she was going to fall asleep.

Then she felt him shift behind her.

“Like I said in Paris…” Colin’s voice was soft in the dark. “I’m really glad you said yes to this trip.”

Penelope let out a quiet laugh, still facing away from him. “Did all that wine make you sentimental?”

“Maybe,” Colin said through a long yawn. “It may have made me a little… cheesy.”

She turned to swat his arm, but Colin caught her wrist gently before she could make contact.

For a moment, they lay there in the dim quiet, his fingers loose around her wrist. His thumb traced a slow, absent pattern against her skin, as if he did not realise he was doing it.

And somehow, after all the nerves and awkwardness and heart-fluttering panic she had carried since she was a girl with a crush, the silence did not feel awkward.

It felt warm.

Familiar.

Easy.

It always did when it came to Colin.

Penelope smiled faintly to herself, still more asleep than awake. “Well... I suppose I can tolerate a little cheesiness if I’m getting free cheese out of it.”

“If that makes you stay with me, then okay…”

The words were barely more than a whisper. Before Penelope could decide that was what he said, his breathing began to even out beside her.

She turned her head slightly.

“Colin?”

No answer.

Of course, he had fallen asleep.

Somewhere between the low crackle of the fire and the steady rhythm of Colin’s breathing, and the warmth of his touch, her own eyes grew heavy.

Before she knew it, she slipped under too.

Later, sometime deep in the night, Penelope stirred just enough to register a solid comforting warmth surrounding her.

An arm around her waist. A chest against her back.

In the haze of sleep, she understood only that she felt safe.

Then Colin shifted slightly in his sleep, pulling her a little closer.

Penelope barely registered the movement, but she felt the comfort of it settle through her all the same.

She should have moved.

She should have carefully slipped free before morning came and turned this into something awkward.

But his arm was warm around her, his breathing slow against her hair, and some quiet, foolish part of her simply gave in.

This might never happen again.

Tomorrow, they might wake and pretend it was nothing more than a simple accident.

Tomorrow, Colin might be Colin again. Affectionate, careless with touch, unaware of all the terrible hope he left behind.

But tonight, in the dark, she could let herself have it.

Just this once.

Because happy endings, like the perfect days she'd been experiencing in France, were not things Penelope had ever trusted to last.

So she closed her eyes again and allowed herself to stay.