“You met in Tesco? Tesco?” Craig cackles. “That’s not romantic, that’s a Clubcard commercial.”
“No, but it felt romantic,” I say, laughing. “Organic, not matching on some stupid app. Like a real-world connection. It honestly felt like I was in some kind of ‘90s Hugh Grant film.”
Craig hums approvingly. “Real is good. Real is rare. And he’s handsome, right?”
“So handsome.” I bite my lip, the memory of Pete’s smile making my chest fizz. “Like cheek dimples kind of handsome.”
Craig groans dramatically. “Well, thank God. I was starting to worry you’d end up alone forever with just Buster the cat for company.”
“Buster’s already planning the wedding,” I shoot back.
“Don’t pretend that Buster gives a fuck about anything other than the tuna in your cupboards.”
“True.”
We fall into easy laughter, the kind that’s carried us through years of friendship. It still amazes me, sometimes, that Craig and I made it through. We’d dated briefly in our early twenties—two weeks of drunken dinners, ill-advised kisses, and one particularly awkward fumble in Craig’s old student flat. By mutual, silent agreement, we’d decided we were better off as friends. Over twenty years later, that decision felt like the smartest thing I’d ever done.
“So, you’re already very healthily planning the wedding in your head?” Craig asks.
“Yes.”
“Based on a conversation in the fruit and veg aisle.”
“Yes.”
“With someone you’ve not even swapped numbers with.”
“That’s right, yes.”
“Excellent, can I have front-row seats at the ceremony? I need an excuse to dress up.”
“Of course you can. Your husband not wining and dining you this week?”
Craig snorts. “Don’t make me laugh, the most excitement we had was watching the final ofThe Traitors New Zealandon Tuesday night.”
“Wow, that sounds about as fun as my speed dating rejection email.”
“Actually, it was exceptional television. That said, we have a busy weekend ahead of us.”
“A busy weekend as in a DIY project in the spare room, or a busy weekend as in you’ll need two days and a vitamin injection to recover from it?” I ask.
“Definitely the second one,” Craig admits.
“You dirty dogs. I don’t care what you say, your sex lives are far more exciting than mine.”
There’s a pause, just long enough for my phone to buzz again. I pull it away from my ear and glance at the screen. It’s Daniel.
Craig hears the silence. “What is it?”
I hesitate. “…Daniel.”
A groan rattles down the line. “Oh, for God’s sake. What does he want?”
I open the message:We need to meet.Just that. No context. No explanation. My chest tightens.
“He says he wants to meet,” I murmur.
“Of course he does,” Craig snaps. “That’s what he does—he dangles you, reels you back in, just to keep control. Ignore it.”
