(The Completely Unwilling Participants on) The Bachelor

by Rude Gus

The title says it all.

9. Episode 8

Episode 8

James did not have a count on how many mornings he'd woken up beside a woman. He wasn't a perv, after all. Counting stuff like that was dead weird.

In fact, he had never ranked anything related to women. Again, that was dead weird, super disrespectful, and something only Peter would do. But if James had been under the slightest bit of pressure—for instance, if a stranger had asked him casually on the Tube—he would have ranked this morning-after as the best he'd ever had.

Yet.

He didn't want to get away with himself. Not when he and Lily were just now dating. And banging.

Christ, were they banging.

He sleepily stretched his arms above his head, savoring the slight ache in his muscles, and settled one of his arms around Lily's dozing form. If he had any luck in the world, he'd have plenty more mornings like this.

Only hopefully slightly better. Because although nothing about the night before had been anything but enjoyable, there was that tinge of guilt lurking on account of Isabella.

Poor Isabella, who he hadn't been able to...well. Break up with wasn't quite accurate. They had never formally called themselves boyfriend and girlfriend. They hadn't even kissed each other on the mouth, despite being in close proximity for nearly a month.

But they'd said they liked each other. They had talked vaguely about their lives together after the show, which wasn't properly committing, but it was...something. More than nothing, which made him feel just slightly too much like a cheater.

He'd have felt worse if Isabella hadn't refused to go into the fantasy suite with him, a baffling move he could not begin to puzzle out. Maybe that had been her breaking up with him. Maybe she'd lost interest and was too afraid to tell him to his face.

But if that were true, she could have told him away from the cameras in the suite, just like he'd been planning to do.

In any case, he had to be straight with her today. Although if she found out through the grapevine that Lily had gone to the suite with James, that might be enough of a sign for her to understand…

But it didn't matter. He still had to tell Isabella himself, even if she did hear the gossip. It was the right thing to do.

He was knocked from his musings, and Lily from her sleep, by a fist banging on the door so hard that the show would likely be paying damages to the hotel.

Rita's too-knowing voice carried through the door. "You have an hour to finish up...whatever...and be ready for the day, Potter. Breakfast is out here waiting for you to bring it in."

"Hm," James said, lolling his head sideways to look at Lily. "D'you think breakfast is a trap?"

"What?" said Lily sleepily, blinking at him as if she was surprised to see him there. She turned her head slightly to eye the door. "Did she say there was breakfast?"

"She did...but is she just trying to lure out Jack and Ruby for some sort of paparazzi attempt to shoot the morning-after look?"

Lily lifted herself to her elbows and looked as if she was considering this possibility for a moment. Her hair was marvelously tousled from the night's activities. "I am hungry," she eventually announced. "Can you go and get it? Dunno where my clothes went."

"I feel compelled to bring you food," he lamented. "But I don't want to be on camera again. I was just getting used to being a normal, unmonitored human again. Or at least the regular, government's-always-watching sort of monitored."

"I'd be more sympathetic but I need food," Lily said, "and so do you, so hop to it."

His growling stomach agreed that he needed food, but he'd be damned if he was giving Rita a second more of himself than required. The hotel robe could cover his body easily enough. For his face, though, he'd need to be more creative…

One minute later, James cracked open the door, straining to see through the fabric of the pillowcase he'd donned as a hood. He silently cursed the show for splurging on a top-notch hotel for the trip. Surely lesser hotels had thinner fabric covering the pillows, fabric that James could have seen through. Instead he quickly resorted to pulling the fabric away from his face so he could at least strain his eyes down toward his feet.

"Really, Potter?" Rita asked.

He couldn't see more than a couple vague blobs through the pillowcase, one of which definitely had a weird, camera-shaped blob growing out of its shoulder. He could also hear the implied raised eyebrow from Rita.

At least breakfast did indeed lay at his feet, a tray with silver domes over the plates and everything. The heady, perfect aroma of fried bacon had his mouth watering.

"I knew it was a trap," he muttered as he squatted down to pick up the tray. Of course, that task required both hands, which meant the pillowcase fell back against his face. Very delicately, he stood up and took a step back into the room, only jostling the tray a little when he banged his elbow into the doorframe.

Lily laughed from the bed.

"I'd like to see you do better," he told her as he struggled to keep his balance, one foot out and searching for the door. He eventually found it, kicked the door shut with unnecessary force, and turned around. "Come take the pillowcase off my head?"

He heard enough rustling and then footsteps to hope she was complying.

"You could have just dragged the tray in," Lily drawled as she pulled off the pillowcase, leaving him blinking.

He scowled. "You could have said something earlier."

"Did you want my voice correcting you to be recorded on camera?"

"Fair point." He shoved the tray at her. "Right. Why don't you eat while I jump in the shower."

"If you wanted to be expedient, we could both eat now and then shower together," Lily said, looking up at him with eyes that were wide and innocent and far too dangerous.

"Oh." James brought the tray back toward his chest. "Now that's the sort of idea I definitely don't want recorded..."

By the time they'd finished "whatever," as Rita called it, James had about one minute to towel his hair, throw his shirt on, and awkwardly hop across the room while pulling on his trousers.

He opened the door to find Rita standing directly in front of him, her fist raised for another walloping knock. Bozo and his ever-attached camera stood nearby, catching James zipping up his fly. Not exactly the sort of footage James wanted to show the nation, but at least he had his shirt on. Zipping up could have meant he'd just been to the loo for urinating purposes, and not "whatever."

"It's confessional time," Rita said, looking like the canary that had got the cream and also won the lottery.

Of course, she told him on the way to the room they were using as a confessional, he couldn't say what he was really thinking.

"This is the only time, Potter, I will ever ask you to shut your gob: don't you dare tell the viewers you're settled. And that goes for more than just the confessional."

She scolded him for being too direct with Lily on their date—and what a joke his monologue to Isabella had been, "like we would ever air that"—and instructed him that under no circumstances was he allowed indicate to Isabella that he had already picked Lily. Rita would be keeping Isabella isolated in her room, preventing her from learning that Lily had joined James in the fantasy suite.

"I have to give Isabella some hint," James argued as he dropped onto the confessional stool. "I'm not a monster like you."

"And I may be a sea witch but I need compelling footage." She stood directly in front of him, her knees brushing against his legs, her eyes narrowed behind her bejeweled spectacles. "And since you're legally obligated to follow the terms of the contract, which includes not telling them who you're picking..."

"So don't air the part where I hint to her what's coming, okay? But I can't—I can't completely shock her at the end. Then I'd be just as bad as you."

"I realize that I'm not going to convince you to my side of this. I also realize that I can't stop you from blurting it out unexpectedly. So we are making a deal here, Potter." She placed one hand on his knee. Not grabbing, or doing anything other than touching, but it still made James shiver. "You can give Isabella a subtle hint or two. But if you go any further…" She slowly withdrew her hand, staring him down, her eyebrows slightly lifted.

The thing was, Rita had been menacing at one point. She'd had an absurd amount of control over his life for much of the show, when she could—and had—put him in a stream of miserable situations. She'd been able to limit his communications and his interactions and even his physical location.

But James had picked Lily. And Lily had picked James. And there were only two dates left.

He broke out into a slow grin. "And if I do, what will you do about it, Rita? The show's almost over and I'm never going to see you again."

He had a feeling Lily would be very proud of him for this.

But he did not like the wicked smirk that Rita volleyed back to him.

"We may have almost finished filming," she said, "but we've barely begun editing. And if I feel like it—and I might—I can make you look very, very cruel. This show is going to be obscenely popular—do you really want to deal with all that hate mail? With how that will dog you online and in person for the rest of your life?"

James's grin faded.

"And not just you," Rita continued, "but your new little girlfriend. I could make it look like Lily has been scheming all along to undermine Isabella, if I want. Yes, you'll both know what happened, but I control the public narrative. You might be wealthy and well-situated, so maybe you can take the heat of the public eye…" She leaned an inch closer to him, her chest over his knees. "But can Lily?"

James clenched his hands around the edges of the stool, his nails threatening to crack.

Rita fucking Skeeter.

She had him by the balls and she knew it. Lily's career—whether it was her real writing one or her fake shop one—would not be helped by a horde of angry people chasing after her with (hopefully metaphorical) pitchforks. And she didn't have the financial situation he did, where he could loaf about unemployed if he felt like it.

"Fine, Ursula," James bit out. "We have a deal."

He assumed Rita was trying to smile, but she really couldn't manage anything less menacing than what the real Ursula would put on. "Excellent," she said. "That's what I like to hear, Prince Eric."

After they'd finished filming his extremely uncomfortable confessional, during which she redirected him on no less than ten occasions, she led him out toward the hotel lobby.

"I'm going to go work with Lily on her confessional," she said, "and then we'll head out for your date with poor Isabella." As they rounded the corner into the lobby, she added, "Oh, and Bonnie quit, so we're skipping the rose ceremony. There's no point in wasting resources with only two contestants left."

James stopped in his tracks. "Bonnie quit? Like, last night? Last night while Lily and I were—er."

Rita kept walking, apparently not noticing he'd stopped. She waved her hand as she went on and looked down at her clipboard. "Yes. I assume she didn't want to be openly rejected at the ceremony since it's humiliating even if you don't like the bachelor."

James hurried after Rita, frowning. "She could've left earlier, though. I mean, I guess she likes travel—maybe she stuck around for the free trip..."

Rita only hummed absently. "It doesn't matter. No one's going to care about her storyline any—"

She didn't finish her word on account of James's mother shoving her aside as she barreled toward James, arms spread wide.

"You are truly my son," Euphemia cried as she enveloped him in a hug that James suspected might have bruised his ribs.

"Rude," Rita scolded.

"Surely this sort of behavior from my wife doesn't come as a surprise, Rita. You've been around her daily for several weeks now, yes?"

James fought his way out of his mum's embrace at the sound of a voice he hadn't heard in much too long.

"Dad!" he said, spinning around and launching himself at Fleamont.

His dad's grip was less confining than his mum's, but no less solid. After they separated, Fleamont clapped his hands on James's shoulders.

It was funny. James had matched him for height at sixteen, but it still seemed wrong every time James realized he was on eye level with his own father.

"Excuse me, husband," Euphemia demanded. "My son has just fulfilled my every dream after months of machinations on my end. Your dramatic reunion can wait—I require details from him immediately."

Fleamont looked from his wife to his son. "Was that dramatic?"

James's grin widened. "I guess I shouted a bit?"

Fleamont removed his hands from James's shoulders. "A bit low for your mother's threshold."

"I am right here, Fleamont," Euphemia pointed out.

"No one could ever forget, dear."

"Right," Rita said loudly. "This entire interaction is less interesting than what I could be doing. Reunite all you like, but keep the standard rules in mind, Potter. Ah, James," she said with a glance at his parents.

"Oh no," James said in a feigned tone of disappointment. "I can't talk to you about the details, Mum. It's in that legally binding contract you signed on my behalf without consulting me."

The second Rita started walking away, Euphemia grabbed James by his upper arms and forced him to face her.

"I'm so very sorry," she said, "that I couldn't be there to bring you breakfast in your room—"

"I'm not," he answered.

"You know I love reveling in my victories. I'm a reveler. In fact I'm considering having a commemorative plaque made: World's Best Matchmaker. Since you never gave me a World's Best Mum mug," she said pointedly.

"You always asked for one! I can't give you one just because you asked. That's not how it works."

"Anyway, I'm so very proud of you for coming to your senses." She ruffled his hair with one hand. "I hope you showed Lily appropriate devotion and care last night."

"I am not talking about this with you."

"I require tea," said Fleamont, looking away from both of them. "I'm leaving now."

Euphemia shooed him away with her hand. "Go on, then. No need to make a big fuss about tea."

"Tea without fuss is no tea at all," he said idly as he began heading toward the restaurant across the lobby.

"Ignore him," she told James, "and tell me everything."

James sent her a flat look and crossed his arms. "Right," he said, not bothering to hide any of his annoyance. "Well, straight after we got to the fantasy suite, you'll never believe what we did."

"What?" she asked eagerly.

"We changed into footie pajamas and went to bed. Being a complete gentleman, I slept on the floor. I did take the duvet and half the pillows, though, since that seemed fair." He almost added that Lily was definitely into bedroom fairness, but that was actually true and therefore off limits.

Euphemia scoffed. "Fine, don't share anything with your beloved mother who asked you to fulfill her dying wish. But you understand that now I won't give you any information about Bonnie quitting."

He laughed. "Oh, come on, you're dying to tell me."

Her look of faux-outrage fell apart at once. "Well," she said. "Now that you've harassed me for details… I'll tell you. But only to stop you from prying any further."

James gave a lazy wave for her to continue.

"No one saw it coming!" she began. "They'd already booked her a ticket home for this afternoon, but she said she'd get back herself and ran off first thing this morning. Apparently she said she wanted to enjoy some time on her own in France." Euphemia leaned in with her gossip-hound grin. "Rita doesn't know what I do, though. The crew are too afraid to tell her, but whoever was keeping an eye on the girls' corridor fell asleep again. Bonnie slipped into Isabella's room—they've been good mates ever since Isabella moved in with her instead of Helena—"

"Smart choice."

"Extremely. So I imagine they were saying their goodbyes, but around one in the morning, Bonnie ran out of Isabella's room in tears. The crew member on guard woke up, of course...especially when Bonnie called Isabella a coward and sprinted back to her own room."

"No," James said, eyes wide. "Coward?"

"Yes! I heard it from the man himself. No mistake about it."

"Coward…" James's mouth tilted to an angle. "That's such a weird thing to say. Unless they were playing truth or dare, but they seem...not the type." He paused. "Then again, sometimes it's the ones you least expect…"

"Well. My theory is that Bonnie wanted you to pick her mate Isabella, and she couldn't understand why Isabella wouldn't join you in the suite to seal the deal."

He raised his eyebrows. If only he'd been able to raise just the one—the effect was so much more dramatic. "Is that really enough to get Bonnie to cry? She's never seemed the type to weep like a willow."

"I nearly cried in frustration when you kept insisting how much you fancied Isabella, so I can relate. Although in this case Bonnie was dead wrong since Lily is a much better match for you than Isabella. Serves Bonnie right to be crying over it. That pain she could have caused you!"

James scrubbed a hand through his hair. "It seems just as likely that...I dunno, Bonnie dared her to ride a sheep or something."

"The good news is that you're in a position to find out what happened from Isabella. But do it after we meet her—don't ask in front of me, I don't want to seem too nosy."

James heaved a sigh. He could ask Isabella about Bonnie, yeah, but it was really so much lower on his priority list than literally everything else. "I can't wait to be done with this show," he told her, "and then never discuss my love life with you again."

---

Rita pulled Lily into a confessional almost as soon as she'd finished blow-drying her hair.

She was luckier than James, who had been forced to tear himself away from the steamy little bubble they'd established in the shower, dry himself in a hurry, and race to the door with his trousers half-on.

Lily's altogether tidier appearance didn't deter Rita from trying to prise every detail of their night together, along with an emotional confession of undying love, from Lily's lips. She grew so quickly frustrated by the reticence of her newly christened "star contestant" that Lily eventually threw her a bone and admitted that she and James got along well, and that she liked him, and could see them having fun together in the future.

It wouldn't be embarrassing when it turned out to be true.

Following the confessional, Rita caught Lily up on Bonnie's abrupt departure and forbade her to see Isabella—who had already left for her date—until they filmed the finale.

"I expect that will be difficult for you, thinking of poor Isabella being kept in the dark," she said, smiling evilly. "You're so very pious, after all."

"It suits me just fine," Lily replied, shrugging. "James should be the one to tell her, and he'll figure something out."

Rita scowled then, and sent Lily back to her own room.

Under normal circumstances, Lily never would have considered making a long-distance call from a hotel room, even if she wasn't paying the bill. Rita deserved to be inconvenienced in every possible way, however, so it was with a clear conscience that she flopped onto the bed, cradled the receiver to her ear and called Beatrice, who had given Lily her number before she left the castle.

"I miss you so much and I also have news," she said the second Beatrice answered, smiling at the sound of her friend's voice. "It's Lily, by the way. Did I mention that I miss you and have news?"

"Of course you have news, you're a bloody journalist," Bea replied, prompting an amused snort from Lily. "How's France?"

"Buttery."

Beatrice spluttered out a laugh. "If that's some sort of euphemism—"

"Of course not!" Lily yelped. "I'm obviously talking about the pastries."

"Oh yeah, Remus called last night and told me that you might be enjoying some pastries."

"Did he now?"

Beatrice made a pleased humming noise down the phone. "I was just wondering if you had a good time last night, that's all. With the pastries. That you were innocently enjoying. In James's hotel room."

"I enjoyed a few pastries last night, as it happens." Lily leaned back against her headboard, curling her toes into the duvet, her face feeling pleasantly warm. "And one in the shower this morning."

"Oh, how full you must be." She could hear the amusement in Bea's voice. "I've never sampled a such a nutritious treat in the shower. How does one go about partaking?"

"Partaking requires some flexibility, but mostly what you need is an open mind," said Lily wisely, "and a shower mat with excellent traction."

"You dirty bitch."

"I'd argue that I'm quite clean," Lily countered. "I was in that shower for a good forty minutes."

Beatrice responded with a filthy cackle. "The only thing I love more than being right is being so right that my best friend gets an orgasm out of the deal."

"Well, you were right several times."

"That's my girl."

Lily smiled at the ceiling, and twirled the phone cord around her fingers, and sighed. "I guess he likes me. A lot." The warm, happy feeling in her chest hadn't eased off since he'd dashed back into the bathroom to hurriedly kiss her goodbye. "A lot a lot."

"I'm shocked. Truly. Hang on while I pick myself up off the floor."

"And I guess I like him...more than I wanted to admit out loud."

"My jaw just dropped so hard it detached itself."

"He really does want to go traveling with me," Lily said. "He's like, all in, which is crazy, right? We shouldn't be making plans like that right away, and I was saving for hostels and backpacks but he's got so much money and says I deserve everything and thinks that twenty croissants is a reasonable, non-extravagant gift, and he had this idea for the prop—"

"Lil," said Beatrice sternly, "I love you, but you're a total overthinker, and you're head over heels for an underthinker, so what does that tell you?"

"He's not an underthinker, he's spontaneous."

"God, you're so gone and it's revolting," said Bea, "but calm down a bit, yeah? You've got a lot of time to go until you travel, and the two of you will have it figured out by then. You'll find a balance."

Balance. That was an interesting word.

Lily loved that James was spontaneous. It didn't suit him to hold anything back, and so he'd struggled to keep his feelings from her—which had seemed so confusing at the time but now made perfect sense.

He would need to start thinking some things through, because a lack of forethought sometimes led him to make silly choices, like deciding on Isabella after five minutes, but Lily would be there help with that in future. She overthought so many things. She'd never much given way to spontaneity until she'd met James, who made her want to throw caution to the wind and kiss him, touch him, travel the world with him, be stupidly, giddily infatuated, because beneath that heady excitement was the steadfast notion that she'd found exactly what she needed, and everything was going to be fine.

Beatrice was right. They both needed a balance, and they'd found that, perhaps, in each other.

That was such a lovely thought.

"I'll take that under advisement," she agreed, shuffling down further on her bed. "Now, I have to tell you all about the ballet..."

Once she'd said goodbye to Beatrice, Lily texted her mum to confirm that she and James were together. Grace replied with the same brand of snarky, feigned surprise that she'd gotten from Bea. James was a darling and welcome back at the house whenever he wanted, she assured her daughter. Lily could even come with him, if she was a very good girl and ate all her vegetables.

After that, she took a long nap, because she hadn't got much sleep the night before.

By the time she woke up, almost everyone involved with the show had gone to Étretat for the day, which left Lily free to do as she pleased without fear of repercussions. After getting dressed, she shouldered her purse, grabbed a map from the hotel lobby, and set out on a leisurely stroll. One of Rita's lingering producer stooges made a feeble effort to convince her to stay, but she ignored him.

There wasn't much that Rita could do to her now. Since Bonnie had quit unexpectedly in the night, kicking Lily off the show would mean there wouldn't be a finale to speak of.

She took a walk to the Arc de Triomphe and then through Monceau Park, pausing several times along the way to take pictures on her phone and buy macarons in Ladurée. Wonderful as if had been to visit the Louvre with Euphemia, and then the ballet with Sirius, there was a singular kind of contentment to be found in wandering through the city completely unchaperoned.

It would have been more fun with James, who mumbled nonsense in his sleep and loved having his neck kissed and truly despised France, but felt it was worth enduring if it made Lily happy.

Soon, she kept thinking. She'd have him all to herself soon.

They couldn't be seen together in public until after the finale aired, but Lily could easily live with that. James's signature may have been forged by his mother, but he was getting paid to do the show and his parents had a lucrative advertising deal with the production company. Not for anything would Lily encourage him to break the terms of his contract and land his family in hot water.

She'd get Rita back for the both of them, when her article came out.

Lily had texted Rufus to confirm that she would be winning the show—but keeping the accompanying boyfriend, thank you very much—so he'd decided to publish her piece in conjunction with the finale for maximum impact. If the show proved as popular as all asinine reality shows in Britain generally did, there would be no way to avoid making a splash with her exposé.

Rita could edit and tweak and present whatever narrative she wanted, but as soon as it came out that the winner of the show had been a plant from the beginning, it would undermine her efforts.

Unlike James, Lily was under no obligation to follow the terms of her contract because she'd never signed one in the first place. That had been handled by Rufus, whose scrawled imitation of her signature did not remotely resemble the real thing. The true liability for Lily's spot on the show lay with him and his fact-checker friend, who would obviously claim ignorance. Rufus had been thorough in his deceptions, and Rita would never be able to prove that her employee hadn't simply made a mistake.

In any case, the Prophet had orchestrated and survived similar undercover missions, and could take the accompanying heat. It wasn't illegal to lie to a production company, but if it were, Lily's only crime had been to impersonate herself. Rita was the one who chided, insulted, and physically struck the stars of her precious show.

Rita Skeeter could crow all she wanted, but there was nothing she could do to stop the truth from coming out.

Let her do her worst.

---

Once Rita had returned from filming Lily's confessional, and then blatantly refusing to share any details of what Lily had said with James, she filed James and his family into a van. Fleamont asked if she wanted to drive with Isabella, since surely it would be more comfortable to stretch out in a less full vehicle, but Rita insisted on joining them.

"Isabella's no one to scheme with," Rita said with a narrow look at James.

"Oi," he said, climbing into the car. "We made a deal. I stand by my deals."

"And you absolutely will if I prevent you from reneging on it. Forcefully."

He rolled his eyes and clambered into the long seat in the back row, where he settled in next to his dad. Rita moved on to arguing with Sirius over the front seat, one that she somehow lost, even though she was technically his employer. Sirius was just like that, with his dashing good looks and switch-on, switch-off charm.

Sirius could have the front seat all he liked, James thought smugly. James had his dad at his side for the next few hours, which meant he'd finally get a sane bit of conversation.

He quickly brought his dad up to speed as the van wove its way out of Paris and into the country.

As soon as James mentioned his archery lesson with Isabella, a deep frown formed on Fleamont's face.

"Euphemia," he said in a warning voice. "You let him shoot arrows?"

"Hm?" she said innocently, even though she had been laughing at some of James's memories the whole trip. "Of course I did. Why shouldn't I?"

"Perhaps because the only time you took him to an archery range before, he left with a mysteriously broken toe and a lifetime ban from the range? Or possibly because we later received several harassing phone calls demanding we pay for the irreparable damages to the drink cart umbrella?"

"Half of that was my fault," Sirius chimed in from the front.

"Excuse me," James retorted, "it was ninety percent your fault. I would never have aimed an arrow in that direction if someone hadn't been telling me it'd be a laugh—"

"This was decades ago," Euphemia said, waving her hand in the air. "Who can even remember anything from that age?"

Fleamont gave a long-suffering sigh and looked out the window. After a moment, he turned back to James.

"I do hope," he said, "that your excursion ended injury-free."

"Tragically, no," Sirius said before James could reply. "James's ego suffered a massive hit when Isabella ended up with ten times his score. Or rather, it would've been ten times his score if he'd had any score, but as multiplying by zero results in zero...well. You see what I'm getting at."

Fleamont nodded sagely. "I do."

"Betrayal!" James cried. "I have fantastic sport skills. Why would you think I'd be so bad at archery?"

"I return once more to the aforementioned instance in which you returned from an archery range with a mysteriously broken toe and a—"

"Fine, fine, don't believe in your son. Whatever. I don't care." James crossed his arms and stared out his own window.

He couldn't hold out forever, though, and eventually Fleamont drew the rest of the show's "adventures" out of him. They had more than two hours in the car to cover several weeks of events, and that was how long it took for James to get through it all, thanks to the constant James-deprecating commentary from Sirius and Euphemia. They didn't let up for even minutes at a time.

This didn't change once they'd been unloaded on top of a seaside cliff for a picnic. The sun sparkled on the ocean several hundred feet below them, turning the stone cliffs below them to soft gold.

The crew had made it here ahead of them. They'd placed beach stones on the edges of a checkerboard blanket to keep it from blowing away in the sea breeze, as well as a wicker basket overflowing with an array of presumably French "delicacies."

James would never have admitted it aloud, but this would have been an exceptionally calm and picturesque place for a date, if he hadn't been trying to break up with the woman about to join them. And if it weren't for his family—awkward date material—and the horde of crew and cameras.

Also the part where they were in France and not literally anywhere else in the world.

It might've been worse in the middle of the Australian outback...but maybe just slightly. Except even there he could see a kangaroo, so that still would've topped France.

At least this was better than the horror show of the catacombs. That was something.

Isabella seemed a bit grim-faced when she stepped out of the car, but the view seized her attention immediately, coaxing out a small smile.

"Hi," he said as she approached.

Shit. What if she tried to kiss him?

She probably wouldn't. They hadn't really at all, and his parents were right there. She'd likely go for the hug—

And she did, ultimately, looping her thin arms around James's chest. But not for long.

"Hello," she said, without any of the bounce she'd had on the boat in Oxford. "It's absolutely stunning here. I've always heard such good things about Étretat."

James managed to mostly suppress a grimace. "Sure," he said. "And, ah, these are my parents, Euphemia and Fleamont. Sirius you know well, obviously. Or, ah, as well as you can know the host of your show… Except not really, since we know the other host really got to know someone…"

"James," warned Rita from a distance.

"Right," he said, shaking his head. "Anyway. Mum and Dad, this is Isabella."

"I've heard quite a lot about you," Fleamont said, offering out his hand.

Euphemia, of course, took a much more hands-on approach, engulfing Isabella's lithe frame in a smothering hug. James didn't worry much about Isabella breaking—she was the fittest and strongest person he'd ever met—but even body builders required regular oxygen flow to their lungs.

Isabella's eyes had gone a bit wide and shocked when the hug finally ended. James's heart clenched—that was exactly the sort of unreserved hug Isabella needed from a parent, and had almost certainly never received.

Fleamont stared down at his unshaken hand and sighed. "Anyway," he said. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

"You too," said Isabella, still slightly stunned. "And I do know Sirius, although it'll be nice to chat a bit more than usual."

Sirius only lifted his hand in greeting. Considering how dull he found Isabella, even that meager gesture showed significant effort on Sirius's part. James gave him an upward nod of approval.

Sirius rolled his eyes and gestured to the picnic. "Shall we?" he said. A second later he pulled a face. "Oh, fuck. What has this show turned me into?"

Euphemia placed a hand on his back. "Someone more polite and inviting, apparently. My sympathies."

Sirius kicked at the ground with his ratty trainers—his typical hosting suit had been abandoned to distinguish his role today from his typical one—and uttered more curses under his breath.

"Not worth it," he announced, and practically threw himself down onto the blanket, where he sat with his arms tightly crossed.

"After you," James said to Isabella.

Euphemia grabbed Isabella's hand and pulled her down to the blanket. "So," she began, "I understand that you're a fitness instructor. It really takes someone special to teach, you know."

"Absolutely agreed," Fleamont said as he joined them. "They make or break people's interest in entire fields. For instance, my absolutely atrocious art teacher in primary turned me off of it for the rest of my life."

"It's true," Euphemia told Isabella. "He refuses to even enter art museums. They give him hives."

Isabella sent a look of concern toward Fleamont as James settled in next to her. "That sounds awfully serious. Have you seen a doctor about it?"

"She's joking," Fleamont said. "Our son received his love of blathering on from one of his parents. I leave it to you to make your own conclusions about which one, of course."

"Shall we," Sirius muttered to himself, staring down at the blanket.

Euphemia patted his knee. "Your natural snark will come back, dear. I know it will." Then she turned back to Isabella. "I also recall that you were interested in someday starting your own business."

"Er," said Isabella, looking quickly at James. "Yes. I—maybe. When I'm much older and more experienced."

"Nonsense," Euphemia said. "My husband started his business at twenty-five and never looked back."

"That's not strictly true," Fleamont said.

"And now he has an empire. Now, naturally you don't want to follow his course exactly—we don't need the competition so don't even think about it—but he has loads of advice he can share with you about being an entrepreneur in a completely different field."

Isabella sent a mildly panicked look at James.

"So," he said loudly. "You might be wondering why Sirius is here when he's not related to me—"

"We adopted him in every sense but the legal one," Euphemia said. "Now, the first thing you'll need is a business plan—"

"He moved in with us when he was sixteen," James continued.

Sirius had perked up at the sound of his name. "Best thing I ever did, leaving my shit family."

"This isn't about you," Euphemia scolded.

"Well put," Fleamont said. "Perhaps we should all take a moment to ponder who this is about, and what they might like to do with this time."

"Not subtle enough by half, dear."

He gestured out toward the ocean, where several sailboats dotted the horizon. "Forgive me. I find it difficult to reach for subtlety in such a dramatic location."

"Forgiven, but as I was saying, Isabella, you must start thinking about your target audience—"

She stubbornly went on about Isabella's future studio while the rest of them snacked on the picnic. To James's chagrin, the cheese was delicious and soft.

Isabella listened to Euphemia mutely at first, seemingly in shock, but eventually she began asking questions and soliciting Euphemia's advice on branding techniques.

Rita looked vaguely murderous, her hands clawing at the air at her sides. James muffled a laugh. A lesson in business was excellent advice for Isabella, but it would probably have all the show's viewers changing the channel. Or fast-forwarding to later on their computer, because honestly, who still watched television live anymore?

The best, sweetest part was that Rita had no recourse. Euphemia had leverage over her, and besides, she wasn't actually violating any show rules or even James's agreement with Rita. Isabella was getting what she needed for long-term success, and Rita got nothing. Sweet, sweet victory, delivered at his mother's hands, as usual.

Eventually Rita bit out that they had enough footage and made the crew scramble to pick up the picnic, even as James and the others were just stepping off the blanket. She separated Isabella again, which was still incredibly stupid and pointless, and directed James and Euphemia to their own van.

"Cheers," he told his mum once they'd headed off to the second part of the date. "That was brilliant."

She bowed her head in acknowledgment. "All I ask for in return is the story of what happened between Bonnie and Isabella."

"Yeah, no."

"What do you mean, no?"

"Hm?" He gestured toward the sunny fields of grass on either side of the car. "Sorry, can't hear you, I'm going through a tunnel."

She lightly punched his shoulder, her lips thinned and at a slant. "Fine," she said. "But don't expect any more saves from me on this show. I can see how my kindness is repaid."

She pouted the whole ten minutes it took them to arrive at a posh golf course overlooking the sea. James had to admit the scenery would make for excellent television.

So would his somewhat last-minute reversal of roles.

He had to take his last chance to somehow warn Isabella. He just couldn't think of the right words.

Oh, so, I know we were basically almost betrothed...but jk I kinda like someone else, sorry.

Or more mature: My dearest Isabella. I have much enjoyed our time together. Alas, tragically my true affections lie elsewhere.

Or maybe he could couch it in some sort of allegorical tale involving a crab and a sheep…

He'd come up with exactly zero plan by the time he met Isabella at the first hole, two crew members lugging along their rented golf clubs.

"Er, hi again," he said.

"Hello," she said, and moved toward him, arms lifting slightly. Then she stopped and pretended she hadn't just almost maybe hugged him. "So, ah, d'you like golf?"

"Well," he said, "I have been known to call it the sport people watch to fall asleep."

She smiled faintly. "Have you ever played, though? It's a real challenge for the mind."

"Yes," he agreed, "it's a real challenge staying awake for it."

Maybe this was the way to make it clear they were better suited to other people: highlight their differences.

"So," he added, "you a big golf fan, then?"

"It's not my favorite, but I used to play more often. My—well, my ex taught me how to play."

"Oh. What was he like?"

Bringing up the exes. That was either emotional progress or an explosive topic. Hopefully the latter. As much as Isabella could be explosive.

She cut her eyes down to her bag, where she deftly extracted her driver. "My ex was...thoughtful. Precise. Kind."

"Why'd you break up?"

"There were...it was...it's difficult to explain," she said with a glance at the nearest camera.

"Sorry, forget I asked."

"No, it's fine…" She focused on placing her golf ball on the tee.

Pushing for the ex story was, in hindsight, a bit over the top. He wouldn't want to detail all his break-ups on camera either. But there were other things he could ask. Other areas of difference to explore.

"Where d'you see yourself living long-term?" he asked on the next hole. "D'you plan to stay in Oxford?"

"Of course. I couldn't leave my family."

He made a noncommittal noise. He couldn't outright say he planned to be in London for a good long while, or that he'd live in France before he'd live in Oxford. Not in the least because the latter wasn't true, but also because he caught Rita's warning look behind Isabella. Stating his intentions might be a step too far.

"What d'you like about Oxford?" he asked before she could turn the question toward him.

"The charm," she said, resting her hands on top of her putter. "It's cozy and old and there's so much history. I don't know nearly enough about it, to be honest, but Bonnie always said—" She broke off, pink tinging her cheeks as she cut her gaze out toward the ocean. "The architecture has always amazed me, too."

James looked down into his bag while trying to figure out which club was his putter. The driver was easy to identify—big, heavy, could easily be used to shatter someone's femur—but all the other ones looked the same.

"Er," he said, loudly knocking some of the clubs around. "It's, ah, good you like it there."

A large sigh escaped Isabella. "I'm sorry," she said. "I'm not—I'm in a bit of a mood today, and it's nothing to do with you."

He glanced up to find her staring down at her golf shoes. "Oh, hey," he said, straightening up. "Don't worry about it. I, er...heard some things. About...last night."

She fixed her soft brown eyes on him, her eyebrows drawing together and her lips pressing thin. "You did?" she asked tightly.

"Just that, ah." He cleared his throat. "That Bonnie quit and said...something to you. That's all I know. And I know you were, um, close."

Her shoulders unbunched. "Yes," she said in a rush. "We were close mates. And I wasn't—expecting her to leave. Not like that."

"No. It was...surprising."

"I mean, we both knew—or thought, really, that at the ceremony… Well. She didn't expect to get this far."

"Yeah, uh, it's not like you two misread the situation…" He coughed. "I mean, she's great, don't get me wrong—"

"No, I—I know what you mean. I do." She shook her head, the few strands of hair on the sides of her face swaying, then smiled. "We do get each other, don't we?"

"Uh, yeah," he said helplessly. "We do."

She nodded out toward the ocean. "I could see a Bond movie happening here, you know. A villain chasing after him so he has to jump off the cliffs."

For being someone he had, in all earnestness, said that he understood deeply, he had no clue where she was going. Puzzling her out today was like navigating French geography, which James of course knew nothing about.

"I guess. I'm loathe to praise this loathsome country," he said, "but him jumping off anything that high into the ocean would be cinematic."

"It would be appropriately dangerous. Swinburne almost drowned here, you know."

"Who?"

"Algernon Charles Swinburne. You know, the poet? The driver told me on the way here—she grew up in the area."

"Oh," James said. "Er, all right."

"Is that who you named Algernon after?"

"Ah, no. I didn't name him after anyone. It's just...a name."

"Oh. I thought maybe we both named our cats after books-related things."

"Yours are named after books?"

"Yes," she said quickly. "You should take your shot, you know. The sun's starting to get low."

"Oh. Right."

By the end of nine holes, he couldn't say that he'd succeeded at his mission of dropping hints. Then again, he couldn't say he'd failed either.

Whatever had been easy to read about Isabella had disappeared. Instead he was left with someone who wasn't clinging to him but also wasn't verbally giving signals that she was picking up his meaning. He tried every method he could to indirectly point out they weren't going to be a great match, and it wasn't like anyone had ever accused him of subtlety before. Surely she'd got the point...

Maybe she did get it but was trying to save face? Or maybe she had a brain infection that was making her act all weird.

Either way, by the time they awkwardly hugged each other goodbye at the ninth hole, James had a sinking feeling that she was in for a rude shock at the final ceremony.

---

Lily never would have thought she'd experience the strange phenomenon of knowing that her boyfriend was on a date with somebody else.

Experience it she did, however, and she bore up admirably. It helped that she wasn't remotely worried.

At least, she wasn't worried for herself.

Rita had been right. It was difficult for Lily to think of Isabella being lied to, and it seemed highly likely that Rita would have made some insane threat to keep James from telling her the truth.

She hoped that James had managed to get a few hints in, and that the finale they were scheduled to film in a couple of days wouldn't see her friend taken completely aback. Isabella was stronger than she believed, Lily knew. Once she escaped the reality television bubble, she'd likely see that she and James weren't suited and get over it, but public shame and rejection was an entirely different beast.

Lily hated the idea that she'd somehow become party to another woman's pain. Having feelings for James when she'd believed he didn't want her had been deeply unpleasant, but she had still slept better when she only had her own heart to worry about.

It took her a long time to drop off that night, preoccupied with concern for Isabella, who seemed to be heading towards an unavoidable humiliation, and for James, who was inevitably going to feel like a prick for having caused it. She suspected she would have slept more comfortably if she'd been tucked up with him in his suite, though Rita certainly wouldn't allow it. There was probably a way to barter with her somehow, but they'd definitely have to pay for that privilege on camera and Lily didn't much feel like selling out her soul.

Eventually, though, she did sleep, and woke up late the next morning—after a very strange and possibly prophetic dream in which Euphemia took her for a coffee only to reveal that she'd had Lily's bridal gown commissioned by Vera Wang—with not much time to spare before she had to leave to meet James's family, so she skipped breakfast in favor of getting ready.

It was with an achingly empty tummy that she climbed into the car that was to take her to Giverny, desperate for a cup of tea and slightly fearful that the show was going to end with Euphemia announcing that she'd been ordained online and would be officiating Lily and James's surprise wedding ceremony on camera.

By the time she reached her destination—a quaint cottage with jade green window shutters, nestled amongst ivy and rows of lavender—Lily was feeling quite nervous, though she wasn't sure if the butterflies in her tummy were down to meeting James's father for the first time, or all the banging they'd done in his hotel room.

How was she supposed to greet James, in light of what they'd done? Kiss him like they were an accepted fact? Act cool and unaffected? The former felt like giving Rita what she wanted, but the latter felt completely insincere.

They should have planned for this in advance, she thought, annoyed with herself as she stepped out of the car, just like they'd settled on what they'd do for his proposal.

It turned out that her worries were unfounded, for when Lily was led into the cottage gardens, she barely had time to register the tartan picnic blanket and accompanying basket before Euphemia pounced on her, pulling her into a bone-crushing hug. Evidently, she wasn't interested in pretending to the cameras that she'd never met Lily before, though Lily had never been careful about that either.

"Oh, I've missed you," Euphemia sighed in her ear.

"Um," Lily replied, her arms pinned to her sides by the sudden attack. "Thank you?"

She normally did quite well with the parents of guys she dated, but Euphemia's ever-growing enthusiasm was something beyond the pale.

"Scientifically speaking, Mum, you can't hold onto her forever."

"Please, don't give her that challenge," said Lily, unable to see James from her current position, half-suffocated by his mother's loving embrace. "I missed you too, Euphemia, but my ribs…"

Euphemia pulled out of the hug but didn't let Lily go completely, holding her at arm's length so that she could fuss over her.

"You look utterly lovely, dear," she told her, smiling indulgently as she brushed something nonexistent from her shoulder. "Simply glowing. It just shows what the first flush of true love can do to a girl's complexion."

If Lily did happen to be glowing, it was from sheer embarrassment at this proclamation.

There was no polite way to tell Euphemia that she was getting way ahead of herself, and considering how she and James were already so sure of their relationship that they'd committed to taking a round-the-world trip together in a year, it would also be completely hypocritical.

"That'll be the sea salt face masks they give us at the hotel," she replied, while her cheeks burned like someone was holding her head over a hot griddle. "This is actually the first flush of sodium chloride."

She tossed James a glance that she hoped contained a subtly-delivered cry for rescue from his mother's clutches, as well as a general appreciation for how tall and handsome and generally appealing he was. It was extremely difficult to demonstrate such starkly opposing sentiments at once.

"You haven't met my dad," James said immediately. He grabbed his dad's arm and shoved him toward Lily. "Here, this is him."

"Hello," said Fleamont with a warm smile. He looked so much like his son that Lily would have guessed they were related if she'd bumped into him in the street. "I am indeed James's father. Who has a name, but no one seems to care much about it."

"It's Fleamont," Euphemia supplied. "Such a handsome name, don't you think?"

"I think it's very unique," said Lily diplomatically, finally managing to extract herself from Euphemia's grasp, "and Sirius told me your name the other day, so you can take comfort in the fact that he cares, at least."

"Did he?" Fleamont said, tilting his head, his smile broadening. "Well, that is a relief. He's never been one for showing much affection."

"I'm insulted," Sirius said.

"You're arguing you're affectionate? Or that you don't care?"

Sirius shut his mouth mutinously. "Whatever," he said, and threw himself down to sit on the picnic blanket.

Lily cocked her head to the side as she took in this minor tantrum, then she returned her gaze to Fleamont's face.

"You're the sensible one, yes?" she asked him. "I figured one of you had to be."

"It is a challenging but necessary role," he said. "I'd heard you were clever and I do appreciate that that bore out. Please have a seat. If you're to be the other sensible one among us, I believe we'll both need a glass of wine."

Wine on an empty stomach didn't seem like an idea that would be appreciated by a sensible person such as herself, but with Euphemia in such high spirits, it also seemed quite tempting. Besides which, the spread of appetizing snacks and pastries laid on the blanket would hopefully counteract the booze.

Lily took a seat on the picnic blanket next to Fleamont and across from a sullen looking Sirius.

"Sit next to me?" she said to James, who was still standing by his mother.

He grinned and dropped into place next to her, then pecked a kiss on her cheek. "For the record, I also missed you. More than my mum, probably. I mean, I really hope so."

"I think so," she said, and slipped her hand inside his, trying to ignore his mother, who had circled the blanket to sit next to Sirius and was beaming at them both like a devoted stalker. "I missed—"

"I think we've established," Sirius said, his voice ringing, "that everyone missed everyone, and we can now move onto more interesting topics."

"Except my dad," James said.

"No," Fleamont said, "I missed the three of you while you've been filming."

"But you saw us yesterday."

"Ah, true. In that case, I allow Sirius's comment to stand."

"Never mind that," said Euphemia impatiently. "What we really want to discuss is how Lily enjoyed her night in the fantasy suite."

Lily would have been willing to bet her piano that only Euphemia cared about that.

Her and Rita, who was undoubtedly out for all the fun, sexy details she could scrape together.

What, realistically, could Euphemia have been expecting her to say? Oh, Euphemia, your son is simply tremendous in the sack, not to mention an animal in the shower, which by the way was logistically unsound but worth it for the massage jet attachments. Vive la France!

Lily had come prepared for such a line of questioning.

"Oh, well, you know it was the fantasy suite, so we watched the entire Lord of the Rings trilogy in our pajamas," she said innocently, reaching for the glass of wine that Fleamont had poured and was holding out for her to take. "Then we went straight to sleep. You should be really proud of James, who was an absolute gentleman and took the floor."

"Then when we woke up," he added, "we watched The Princess Bride and practiced sword fighting."

Lily wished she could high-five her partner in crime-fighting without immediately giving the game away, but she settled on squeezing his hand.

"With baguettes. There's loads of them lying around," she concluded, and smiled at Fleamont, launching her defense before Euphemia could ask again. "What have you been up to while these lot were filming?"

"The time alone has allowed me to spend some time on my hobbies," he confessed. "My bonsai trees have never been so well-trimmed before, and I am now fully up to date on my Yelp reviews. My backlog list was growing quite long."

"He also bought a selfie stick," Euphemia said. "He kept sending selfies to me so I wouldn't feel lonely. He's improved greatly."

"Ah, yes." He nodded gravely. "And the art of the selfie. Strangely necessary in this day and age."

"I particularly enjoyed your cooking selfies."

"I admit, my favorite to date was me with my tahdig."

"Are you the chef in your house, then?" asked Lily. "Or is that a shared responsibility? I live with two other people who swear by the microwave, so I generally have the oven to myself."

"My love of chemistry has indeed carried over into the kitchen. Tragically, however, I have no pupil to pass my knowledge onto."

"Really?" Lily looked at James. "Didn't he teach you?"

"I mean, you've met me," he said. "Are you really surprised I'm rubbish in the kitchen?"

"I think you're brilliant and could do most things you put your mind to, so yes, I am surprised," said Lily, and sent him a flat look. "Are you actually rubbish, or do you just assume you would be?"

She was, perhaps, being a little cheeky in front of Fleamont and Euphemia. She wasn't sure if they would thank her for it, but if the alternative option was to pretend that she'd be perfectly justified in having low expectations of James, Lily figured she could take the hit.

"The third time he tried to teach me," James said, "we all had to leave the first floor of the house. Did you know that if you burn certain types of peppers that it diffuses into the air and sends you into coughing fits?"

"It was unpleasant," Fleamont admitted.

Euphemia patted James's knee. "Not your finest moment."

"Okay, but during this pepper burning fiasco, had you asked him to teach you or had he offered?" Lily continued. "I think one's level of interest lends itself directly to how much effort gets put in."

"You think as a thirteen-year-old I was desperate for cooking lessons?"

"He wanted to go play football," Fleamont said.

"So he burned the peppers on purpose. I'm with you." Lily took a sip of her wine. "What kind of food do you like cook?"

"Mostly South Indian cuisine, as it's the food of my childhood, but I like to dabble in a little bit of everything."

"Right." She turned her attentions back to James. "Ever thought of trying to learn now that you're, you know, not prepubescent?"

"My plan has been for my dad to live forever and keep supplying me with my fix. So far it's worked perfectly."

"And while it's great that you've cracked the secret to eternal life, didn't you say you wanted to start a family?"

He frowned. "Yeah?"

"And, okay—supposing, just for the sake of argument, mind, that one day you and I got married—"

Euphemia let out a dramatic little gasp that could have single-handedly won her a starring role on any telenovela of her choosing.

"Again, this is just for the sake of argument," Lily continued, keeping her eyes on James and not on his overeager mother. "Not having any Indian heritage myself, I know nothing about the culture or traditions or food, and I'd learn about it for your sake, but the primary responsibility for passing that down to your children should be yours, right? I'll note once more that this is a completely hypothetical scenario which could apply to numerous women," she added, sensing Euphemia's excitement expanding like a balloon.

"Committing much?" Sirius commented. "Save your proposal for tomorrow."

"I was making a point about the importance of adult life skills, not proposing," said Lily calmly, "nor was I crying at the ballet, unlike someone I could mention."

Sirius muttered something unintelligible and reached for a piece of brie.

James raised his eyebrows at Lily. "It sounds like you'd be an excellent student for my dad's teachings. Then one of us would have the information."

Cheeky git.

"I'll learn if you agree to learn too," Lily returned, "in the interest of equality, and all. You don't get to be seen in public with your eventual girlfriend until after the show has aired, remember?" She shrugged, and let go of his hand to reach for a smoked salmon blini that was slathered in cream cheese. "Sounds like a lot of nights indoors to me."

The blini was delicious. Salmon was a truly magnificent fish.

"It is," Euphemia put in. "But you two won't want to spend that time cooking, surely. Not when you could occupy yourselves...in other ways…"

"That's true, but you need energy to sustain yourself for long Monopoly tournaments, and food gives you energy." Lily turned back to James. "Well?"

He sighed as if he had been deeply put upon, but Lily knew him well enough to know that he was secretly pleased by her faith in him. "I suppose there are worse ways to pass a few weeks. After all, we could be stuck in France the whole time."

"I promise," said Lily solemnly, "that I will never ask you to return to France. Or drink French wine. Or eat French food, except for French fries. Those I'll buy for you."

"They're actually Belgian, thank you. Don't taint such a delicious food with the horrific French imprint." He nodded. "But also, thank you. I will absolutely be holding you to that."

"Has it occurred to anyone," Fleamont wondered aloud, "that I may not be available for the next several weeks for cooking lessons?"

"We'll clear your schedule," Euphemia told him, her eyes narrowing. "This is important."

"Oh, I wasn't assuming that you'd just give up your time like that," said Lily to Fleamont. "Sometimes I get carried away when I'm on my high horse. It's a terrible flaw of mine. Please don't cancel anything on my account."

"Oh," Fleamont said, "I am free. I simply wanted to make a point."

"I'm offended that nobody thought to invite me to one of these cooking lessons," said Sirius.

"No you aren't," said Lily.

Sirius scowled, and pilfered another piece of cheese. "You don't know my life."

"Now, Sirius," said Euphemia mournfully, "how on earth are they supposed to have a romantic time with you there?"

"If you also want to learn, nobody's stopping you," Lily pointed out.

"No thanks, Duchess," said Sirius, with a tight smile. "I'll taste-test James's creations. Succumbing to food poisoning seems like as good a way as any to shuffle off this mortal coil."

"He reads too much Russian literature," James confided in Lily. "It's made him morbid."

"Oh, I know, he gave me a copy of Anna Karenina that was heavily annotated with very strong opinions," Lily replied, smiling at him. "Might as well poison him, really. Give him what he wants."

James swiveled his head to look at Sirius. "You gave her your beloved Russian literature?"

Sirius shrugged. "I like her. She's funny. You knew this already."

"I most distinctly did not. You never said that!"

"Didn't I? I'm sure it was implied."

"It was," Euphemia said.

James folded his arms. "I hate all of you. Except you, Lily." He glanced at his dad. "And I suppose you're fine, too, except for the torturous cooking lessons of my youth."

"They'll be less torturous this time around, because I'll be there and I think you're pretty cool," Lily assured him. "And if all else fails, we can always poison Sirius."

"Well," James said, "all right. So long as that's settled."

Lily could tell by his demeanor and the absence of his usual talkativeness that James hadn't had a chance to tell Isabella the truth, and that the resulting guilt and worry had put him in a lousy mood. It didn't improve much as the picnic went on, despite his best efforts to be sociable and despite the jolly time that was had by everyone else. Lily really enjoyed talking to Fleamont about his work, his hobbies, and his many memories of a younger James, and came away from the picnic feeling optimistic that she'd made a good impression.

Still, seeing James so down was frustrating. Lily should have been comforting him, listening to his worries and trying to figure out a way to fix the Isabella problem together. She couldn't, though, because of stupid Rita Skeeter, who would have taken a knife to the neck before she'd let her golden couple spend thirty seconds alone off camera.

They were even escorted separately to their solo date in Monet's garden, where two easels and an assortment of paints had been set up overlooking a gorgeous, tranquil water lily pond, despite the fact that it was only a few minutes' walk away from the picnic site.

Given her and Euphemia's recent gallery excursion and the conversation they'd had about James's hitherto unseen artistic talents, it seemed as if his mother had found the time to influence yet another date activity.

"I'm terrible at art," Lily told him when she arrived, and walked over to him with a smile on her face. He had got there first, and was standing by the easels with his hands in his pockets. "I mean, truly atrocious. I'd say that I could draw stick figures, but I wouldn't want to insult real sticks."

He strode forward, closing the gap between them, and slid his hands alongside her face, fingers tangling in her hair, and kissed her soundly.

She let out a soft, surprised noise before she kissed him back.

Lily knew that they were actively being filmed, felt Rita's cold-blooded satisfaction thrumming away from behind the camera, and could easily imagine Euphemia's delighted smile. Months from now, a TV watching nation would see James plant one on her from the comfort of their living rooms, and they'd both been hoping to avoid that very thing, but that felt insignificant at that moment, like a vaguely irritating bee buzzing away in the background.

If James wanted to kiss her more than he cared about any of that stuff, she wasn't going to care about it either.

When he pulled away, she wrapped her arms around his middle and smiled up at him.

"I don't know what I did to bring that on," she said, "but whatever it was I'm glad I did it."

His eyes widened behind his glasses. "Oh shit," he said. "I've just kissed you. On camera, I mean."

"If you consider it in the grand scheme of things, it's not the most embarrassing thing either of us have done on camera in the last few weeks."

"I mean, no, it's not that it's embarrassing, it's that, er, I wasn't exactly supposed to—"

"Hands off each other," Rita barked. "We're shooting that entrance again."

Lily shot Rita an incredulous glare before turning back to James.

"All these weeks she spends desperate for you to cop off with someone, now we've got to pretend we're not together," she said, with a roll of her eyes. "As soon as we get out of here I'm throwing a bloody parade."

"I've always wanted to throw a parade," James confessed. "I'm so glad we have a lot of common interests."

Rita ordered Lily off-camera and had her approach James anew. He maintained a neutral expression as she walked up, his arms hanging at his sides. When she stood in front of him, he stuck on a polite smile and offered out his hand.

"Good afternoon," he said. "Lenora, was it?"

"Yeah, Lenora, let's go with that," Lily replied, and shook his hand as formally as she could. "What was your name again? Jake Peralta?"

"It's Raymond Holt, actually. Captain Holt. I am deeply offended you're unable to recall such basic facts about me and we will now terminate this relationship."

"That makes me feel sad. I am sad."

Rita cleared her throat loudly. "This is the sort of behavior that drives people to become sea witches." She twirled a hand in the air. "From the top, children."

"You know, this would be so much easier if you'd given us our scripts ahead of time," Lily called over.

"Can I get more fight scenes next episode?" James inquired. "I've always wanted to do a fight scene."

"Maybe Ruby Raptor is like, the strait-laced cop who does things by the book, and Jack Diamond is the hot-headed maverick who doesn't play by the rules, but we've been thrown together to crack this one last case," Lily suggested, looking to Rita for approval. "That's as good an origin story as any. Is that our angle here? You're not giving us much to go on."

"The angle is shape up or I will force James into wearing a beret."

"You wouldn't," James breathed.

"She would," said Lily flatly, "but she won't, because I'll play along. For your sake, and the sake of your beautiful hair."

"It's too early for the l-word—not lesbian, obviously—but I will admit that I fancy you something awful."

"That's alright, I fancy you quite a lot, too." Lily turned back around and waved a dismissive hand towards Rita. "Her I could happily throw in the Seine."

She and James managed to make it through the third take without incurring any more of Rita's wrath, "greeting" each other with a friendly hug that served as an acceptable middle ground between their first two attempts. It was then explained to them—needlessly—that they were to spend their date painting, though Lily had never known an artist to help themselves to champagne and strawberries between brush strokes.

It also seemed quite wise to assume that Rita, with the help of some editorial magic, would find a way to get that kiss on air.

"I've decided that I'm going to paint in the style of the primary school era," she solemnly informed James, once they'd been put in position in front of their easels. She dipped her brush into a blob of bright red paint and smacked it against the canvas. "It's modern, see?"

"Groundbreaking," James said seriously, thoughtfully dabbing his brush into the mound of yellow paint.

"It's a very avant-garde way to disguise a complete lack of any artistic talent."

"I think you should go for something more realistic." He flung his arms out sideways, inadvertently flinging a small paint bomb off into the distance. "Paint me like one of your French girls."

"I mean, I would," Lily said, after laughing appreciatively, "but you'd have to get your kit off, and we're in public…" She shrugged. "Though in general I think the French are a lot cooler with that kind of thing. Lots of nude beaches."

He grimaced. "This is why everyone hates the French."

"In two days, we'll be back in England and you'll never have to set foot in France again," she pointed out, dabbing at the canvas in random spots, "and more importantly, all of this will be over. Mostly."

They still had to air the bloody thing, which seemed like an unavoidable nuisance. Lily could just about handle being recognized by random strangers who would actually think she'd signed up to the show on purpose, but she'd be damned if she voluntarily sat down to watch a second of it.

James swiped a curved line of yellow paint across his canvas, which despite being one line still looked more artistic than Lily's casual blob. "Obviously this was all worth it because I met you," he said, "but I am honestly considering throwing a parade of one when this is over. Of two, if you were serious about parading."

"I have a flat that's very good for two person parading, if you ever fancied popping by. It'll be even better when I live with Beatrice—or worse, depending on how smug she's planning on being." She let her own brush hang loose by her side, now more absorbed in watching what he was doing. "She knew I fancied you before I bloody did. Kept insisting on it."

"She kept insisting about my feelings, too, while I kept insisting—well." He shot her a sideways look. "That I knew how I felt."

"You did know," Lily said, "then you didn't, and then you did again. It happens all the time, it's just that the consequences this time around are…heightened. By this stupid show, which is a singular form of torture, and doesn't suit you at all because you're honest and loyal and you don't like to hurt people."

His next swipe of the paintbrush was fast and harsh. "No," he said. "I don't like to hurt them. And I really, really don't like being made to hurt them."

James sounded so distressed that Lily was reminded of the time she'd gone to give him fries and found him desperate to escape Helena's clutches, except Lily couldn't sweep the show aside with a smart comment like she had with that lunatic. There were cameras and contracts and all sorts of caveats in place to keep them both compliant, and much as her every instinct was calling upon her to knock Rita into the lake and wrap James up in her arms, she would just have to wait before she could enact her own form of revenge.

"I know," she sighed, "and so does—honestly, so does anyone who's gotten to know you over the past few weeks. It's going to be pretty obvious tomorrow that none of this was by your design—which doesn't help you much, I know, but I still need you to know that."

"It doesn't matter what I meant to happen. Not if the person is still hurt."

"I think that person is secretly pretty tough, you know. They might already know. They might end up surprising you." She paused. "That, or Jack and Ruby have got a lot of footage to steal and erase from the sea witch before the winter. I'm sure there's a computer hacking tutorial on YouTube—can't take more than an afternoon."

He gave a single laugh, one just slightly tinged with desperation, and added a few dark lines of paint to his canvas. "Thanks," he said. "It's nice...it's nice knowing I've got someone looking out for me. Even if it means they shout at me on random and unwanted fishing expeditions."

Lily turned back to her own painting, which looked like something a four-year-old would have considered beneath their level of skill.

"Yeah, well," she sighed, "I have been informed on more than one occasion that I can be quite pushy, but I guess it comes in handy sometimes."

"Yeah, you're pushy, but I l—l-word that about you." He added, "Not lesbian."

"You're so extra, Potter. The word 'like' is right there at your disposal, but you shoot straight to 'lesbian.'"

"I said not lesbian."

"I promise, I was never at risk of assuming that was what you meant." She edged a little closer to him on her stool. "What are you painting?"

His waving lines formed something abstract, something that almost looked like something specific, but not quite, swirls of yellow and bright green above a writhing, dark grey mass.

"Can't you tell?" His lips twitched. "Here." He added two narrow, rounded rectangles on top of the green, then added a bit of flair to a couple corners, making them into a familiar shape… But where had she seen that before...

His eyes flicked ever-so-quickly over toward the cameras.

Lily burst out laughing, and wondered if Rita's ego was just inflated enough that she'd enjoy being immortalized on canvas as a conniving sea witch, simply because she was the subject.

"I always thought I'd make a good Ariel," Lily said, "though I'd much rather be a Meg, and you should definitely give that to your mother to hang on her wall." She tapped the edge of his canvas with the end of her paintbrush. "It's really good."

"I was actually thinking we could burn it at the end of our parade." He gave a sly grin. "Does that work for you?"

"On a molecular level I'm very, very averse to destroying anything you've created, but I think I can make an exception."

"Since you're the exception to the horror of this show," James said, nudging his foot against hers, a subtle touch well short of the kiss Lily was dying to give him, "that seems pretty fitting to me."

God, he was stupidly bloody cute.

Not to mention very good at painting, executing dramatic parkour moves whilst pretending to be a secret agent, making Lily laugh and turning her to mush at the most inopportune moments.

This whole debacle had put Lily through the ringer in more ways than one, caused her an undue amount of stress, and taught her that it was possible to truly loathe another human being. All the same, Lily couldn't bring herself to regret her time on the show, nor could she pretend that it was her article—or Rufus, or any of the many problems he could have caused for her career if she'd disobeyed his instructions—that had really kept her in it for so long, in the end.

James Potter had been well and truly worth it, she thought, as she nudged his foot in return and he sent her a grin that made her heart erupt in a flurry of butterflies. Worth every ridiculous minute.

---

James's last date with Lily reminded him why, exactly, he was selling his soul to the sea witch and keeping secrets from Isabella.

Lily matched him in every way that he needed—and that Isabella, quite frankly, didn't. For Lily, he would endure the guilt and shame of leading Isabella on.

Obligation was a funny thing.

He'd only come on this show for his mum in the first place. He'd stuck around for Isabella and, well, contractual reasons. But now his loyalty hung on a woman he'd met just a few short weeks ago, and wasn't that just the sort of self-affirmation his mum didn't need.

He awoke the next morning to an obnoxious, rapid beating on his hotel door. This particular knock had happened on plenty of his childhood mornings, so he took his time before rolling out of bed, throwing on a hotel robe, and opening the door with the chain still attached.

"It's the finale today!" Euphemia told him both unnecessarily and before he could say anything.

"In the promos leading up to this episode, tell Rita she can use that one of them...will...die…line because it's true. I will kill you for waking me up this early."

She held up a hand with her fingers splayed out and considered it. "I've been thinking about diamond cuts for Lily," she said, "and I really think pear shaped is the way to go on this one. Her fingers are much too short for a round or heart cut—"

James, not for the first time in his life, slammed the door in his mother's face.

It was immensely satisfying.

He further delayed the inevitable by taking a long shower and spending twice as long on his hair as usual. At least the ring shopping would provide some level of satisfaction, even if not the kind he'd told his mum about. The final rose ceremony, on the other hand...well. If he never left his room, it would never happen. That was just sound logic.

Eventually his mum and Rita coaxed him out of his room and into a car with a cup of tea and a Danish. It would have been a no-go if it had been a croissant, but his mum, and possibly Rita, knew better than to tempt him with that French garbage.

Tragically, James's firm disinterest in his mum's ring thoughts did not stop her from supplying them at length. By the time they arrived at some ritzy stretch of Paris, James wondered whether he could break free from the cameras long enough to purchase a pair of ear plugs.

Likely not.

It became even less likely when he saw who was waiting for them outside the jeweler's.

"Ta-da!" cried Beatrice, with accompanying jazz hands. "It's me, your friendly neighborhood matchmaker!"

"Right," James said, turning around. "I'm getting back in the car."

Euphemia grasped his arm firmly and spun him back toward Beatrice. "Bea, darling, it's so lovely to see you again. I'm thrilled you could join us to provide us with your expert opinion on rings. You know the two remaining contestants well, after all. We trust your judgment."

"Isn't it a bit obvious that I'm picking Lily if you're here?" James asked Bea.

"It'll be obvious to anyone with a brain that you and Lily belong together," Beatrice countered, with a respectful nod to Euphemia. "And it's not my fault that Bonnie wasn't free."

"Have you heard anything about her?" Euphemia asked, face alight at the hint of new gossip.

Beatrice shrugged. "We were texting and she said she's got a lot of class prep to do for September."

James frowned. "Mum, didn't you say Bonnie wanted to spend some time on her own in France?"

"I did," Euphemia said. "That's exactly what I heard, and I am most intrigued that she told you something differently, Beatrice."

"Isn't France the best place to do class prep if you teach French?" said Beatrice. "Doesn't seem that mysterious to me."

"Oh," Euphemia said flatly. "Oh, that does make a bit of sense, doesn't it? What a disappointment."

"You know what isn't disappointing? Your son's impending engagement." Beatrice fixed James with a smug smile. "I'm so proud of you for making a choice, even though I have no particular interest in it, as I've been completely impartial from the beginning."

James choked back a laugh. "Yes," he coughed. "Impartial. Definitely the word anyone who has been on set would use to describe you. Right after subtle, bashful, and discreet."

Beatrice cocked an eyebrow, and fixed him with a knowing look. "Discreet. That reminds me: how was the fantasy suite? I'd have asked Lily if I only had a way to keep in touch with her."

James felt his face heating. He'd completely forgotten about Lily's mobile phone, and the fact that his glorious night with Lily may now have been shared with people beyond its two participants. "Oh. Right. Er. I try to be a, ah, gentleman, you know, and not share...details...with other people…." He cleared his throat. "Is, ah, Lily that sort of person, you think?"

"She's more the type to drop vague and abstract hints, which is deeply frustrating for me because I love details. How else are you supposed to enjoy a good gossip?" she said, looking at Euphemia. "You understand that, don't you?"

"That's better than James!" Euphemia huffed. "He won't so much as share an inkling of his romp with Lily. It's good to know that she's the person to pressure for information."

"Right," James said loudly. "We're here for a ring, yeah? So I can, ah, woo my fiancée, or...whatever."

"Yes. The ring. Let's get to that posthaste," said Beatrice, and started forwards, slipping her arm through the crook of James's elbow. "I've got a strange feeling that I know exactly the kind of thing you're looking for."

"Oh thank God," he blurted. He wouldn't have to fight both women on his choice of ring, not if Lily had shared certain details of that night in the suite. "I mean, er, I value your expertise. As a, er, singer? Who knows a lot about jewelry. And also Lily and Isabella, obviously. You do have some ring expertise, right?"

"I've been proposed to more than once," said Beatrice breezily. "So, yeah, obviously."

The cameras followed them into the shop, where they were met by more of the crew, all set up for filming. Rita had told them very little of their dialogue would actually be included in the episode—they'd mostly use voiceovers he'd record later—but that they should still be careful to make it seem like Isabella and Lily had an equal shot at winning.

Euphemia fell over herself praising the jeweler, some woman James had never heard of but was apparently quite well-known, while James subtly tried to see if there were any price tags in sight. Tragically, this place was too posh for that sort of thing. He'd have to rely on Bea to help him find what he was looking for.

The jeweler brought out a selection of rings on a velvet-lined tray. James's novice assessment skills informed him that some were gold, while others were silver. He further noticed that they were all very sparkly.

"Er, right," he said, hand hovering over one end of the rings. "Um. How sparkly does she—er. That is. How sparkly do you think Isabella and Lily like their rings?" he asked Bea.

"Sparkle isn't what matters when you're buying a ring for a woman you love deeply and intend to spend the rest of your life with," said Beatrice wisely. "What matters is that it suits the woman in question. Some women like big, showy diamonds. Some prefer to keep it simple."

"Absolutely," said Euphemia, twirling her own ring around her finger. "It must carry a great deal of meaning."

"So with that in mind," Bea continued, "what about that one?"

She pointed to a gaudy gold monstrosity in the center of the display, which was so heavily encrusted that it was difficult to see where the diamonds let off and the actual ring began.

James knew next to nothing about engagement rings, but he knew at once that Lily—who wore flats to the cocktail parties and had confessed in the suite that she'd hated being forced to put so much effort into her appearance for the show—would have despised it.

"I think this ring just oozes the sophistication of a well-traveled woman," said Bea, and nudged James with her elbow. "Don't you?"

"Oh yes," he said, sounding too fake even to himself. "It's got...it's got a lot of elegance." He quirked his eyebrows up at Bea in a question.

"So much elegance," Bea enthused. "I'm sure she'll be transported when she sees it. Whoever you pick. There's no possible way of telling."

"That?" Euphemia blanched. "Surely you're both...starting at one end of things. To consider all your options, of course. Before moving on to a subtler touch."

"I really defer to Bea's expertise," James said. "I know nothing of rings. Except the One Ring, which is not relevant here."

"I mean, ideally James wouldn't need to propose on national television, and I'd be helping him look for rings a few years from now when it made more sense and we had more options, but needs must," said Beatrice. "Besides, I'm sure Rita would appreciate it if we made a prompt decision."

Rita's eyebrows had narrowed slightly, as though she smelled a plot afoot.

"I should pick two rings," James said. "One for each woman I might propose to. They have different tastes, after all. And, ah, well. Bea, d'you think this gold one might be a bit...I dunno...obvious?"

"Yes. Obvious. That was the word. Two rings is a good idea—genius, really. Lily told me you were smart and I now see she was right." Beatrice pointed at another ring, which had a thinner, silver band and a subtle, pretty red stone in the middle. "Something like that might be nice, if we're just spitballing."

"You didn't think I was smart before?" he demanded.

"Hush, James," said Euphemia. "Let the woman speak some sense."

"She's just insulted your son and you're going to stand for it?"

As though she hadn't heard him, Euphemia continued, "What drew you to that ring, Beatrice, sweet?"

"It's very pretty," Bea began, "but simple, which is classier, y'know? Indicates to me that the wearer isn't interested in superficial things. Also, the stone is clearly a garnet which, y'know, is good because it's so difficult to find a diamond that isn't unethically sourced and some women might have a problem with that." She held up a finger. "Did you know that garnets are the birthstone for January? Not that it matters, but who doesn't appreciate a good geology fact?"

"And yet it's still very sparkly," James said sagely.

"Sparkly ring, sparkly woman," said Bea. "Seems fitting to me."

He had to make a show of admiring all the rings, mostly to throw Rita off the scent. When she announced they had enough footage, James jotted down the ring he wanted on a slip of paper, cupping his hand around the paper to keep anyone from seeing it. The jeweler would size it for Lily—there was no need to write that down—and place it in a box to remain hidden until James revealed it to the camera and, incidentally, Lily.

"Are you coming to the proposal, too?" he asked Bea outside the shop.

She winked. "It was my requirement for agreeing to the very cumbersome and exhausting task of helping you select a ring."

Euphemia hugged Bea with one arm. "You are, as always, an utter dear. I'll be glad to have suitable company watching the proposal with me."

"Don't tell Remus that," James muttered. Then he narrowed his eyes at Bea. "That's why you came to France at all, isn't it? To meet with your—your—paramour."

"Of course not," she said airily. "I simply have an extensive beret collection and needed an opportunity to don them."

"Useless hats," he grumbled. "They don't even keep you warm."

"You hate all hats," said Euphemia.

"Yeah. But at least I get why other hats exist. Even if they're insanitary."

"Shut it and get in the car," Rita said. "My beret threat still stands."

He made a face at her but got in the car anyway. He wouldn't put it past her to glue one to his head for the final proposal.

After a quick swing by the hotel to collect Remus and Sirius, the show packed up and moved to the final location. His mum spent the drive nattering on about how James had to propose to Lily, and what he had to say, and what he definitely should not say—"don't you dare mention Isabella—you can tell Lily what happens later—this is the most important moment of your life"—to the point that Sirius came very close to telling her to shut up.

Close, but never direct. Not with Euphemia.

Mercifully the car stopped after less than an hour's drive. As usual, no one bothered to tell him anything about what was happening or where they were going. Everyone climbed out of the car next to a wide, squat building with complicated decorations and an unnecessary amount of columns. It was probably another stupid French museum filled with boring French art. The Dutch Impressionists were where it was at—everyone knew that.

The security guards eyed their group distastefully as they slipped into a side entrance of the building. As expected, the interior decor went for gilded and gaudy over anything resembling actual taste. Rita pointed Sirius, Remus, and Euphemia toward another corridor, and led James to a tacky bedroom with busy wallpaper and antique furniture.

"Your tux is behind the dressing screen," Rita said, eyes on her clipboard. "Quickly, Potter. We're behind schedule."

"That's hardly my fault. Sirius was the one who insisted on fixing his hair."

"And yet you're the one paying the price," she said idly.

If the indignity of having to strip to his pants in a room with Rita weren't enough, he had to endure her instructions even while he suited up.

"You have to make it seem like you might propose to Isabella." She handed a piece of paper over the screen. "We took the liberty of drafting you a speech. Memorize it."

James picked it up, skimmed the first line, and pulled a face.

"Sure," he said. "I'm definitely reading this."

"I know that you're lying, but you are, in fact, saying this. Or something similar at worst."

"Or?"

"Or you're going to break her bloody heart, that's what."

"You shock me with your sudden regard for our feelings."

"You didn't ask for my motivations. That's yours."

"And yours is?"

He could practically hear her smirk. "Better television, obviously."

James shook his head and shoved the speech in his pocket. He hadn't exactly thought of his own smooth words for this situation, but he'd be damned if he let Rita dictate the terms of him finally telling Isabella how he felt.

Once he'd dressed, Rita, Remus, and Euphemia led him out onto the grounds. His mum cooed over his tux, which despite making him feel about five also made him feel like he'd look nice for Lily.

And for letting Isabella down. He grimaced.

"It will all work out," Remus told him as they walked through lines of small, potted trees. "Just be honest with Isabella about how you feel. She'll understand."

"You're awfully confident considering you don't know her very well."

Remus hummed. "It's true, I'm certainly not her confidant. All the same, I have...shall we say some intuition."

Rita's eyes snapped to Remus from her clipboard. "What are you saying, Lupin?"

"Oh, I'm simply speculating. Am I not permitted to bolster my friend's mood prior to the final rose ceremony?"

They stopped by a small, circular pool next to the joining of two building wings. The sun hung near the horizon, gilding the groomed trees and cream-colored building. The trees seemed like a normal part of the gardens, but the flower-laden trellis, and the many, many, many cameras facing it from across the pond, were certainly not.

Nor was the random pedestal holding up a solitary red rose, the mere sight of which sent James's pulse racing.

"We'll be filming from a slight distance," Euphemia explained, "to make your discussions feel more intimate."

"But they're still going to be recorded," James said.

"Of course. But it will seem more natural to you."

"But I'm in France."

"Yes, but would you rather the cameras stand two feet from you as you shatter Isabella's heart?"

Remus coughed.

"That is," Euphemia said, "as you delicately let Isabella down?"

James briefly pressed his palm to his forehead. "Cheers, Mum. Thanks for all your faith."

She kissed his cheek. "My faith is overflowing. So long as you land Lily, of course, and it does seem like a done deal, doesn't it?"

"Well, yeah—unless you know something I don't—"

"That's enough pep talking, I believe," said Remus. "Euphemia, may I escort you to the other side of the pond?"

She took his arm and told James, "Good luck, dear. We love you no matter what."

"No matter what what?" he called after them as they walked away.

"Remember," Rita said. "I'm watching."

James waved a hand to dismiss her. "Yeah, obviously. You're a shoe-in for most dedicated peeping Tom at the BAFTAs. Congratulations."

She raised her eyebrows at James over her rhinestone glasses in a last warning and spun away, already barking orders at the camera crew.

James tugged at the bottom of his jacket, stretching his neck side to side to loosen the tight collar of his shirt. His hands slid over the fabric, his palms drenched with sweat. Hopefully the light didn't catch on his sweat trails. If it did, maybe they could special-effect it out or something.

Surely no one would blame him for being nervous here, right?

After some quick camera and sound checks, Rita shouted for the crew to bring out "the first one."

James kept shifting his weight between his feet, compulsively wiping his hands on his trousers and keeping a keen eye out for Isabella between the trees.

It turned out to be easy to spot them. Bozo was wheeling his camera backwards to film Remus and Isabella from the front as they strolled through the trees.

They'd be capturing the footage of him right now, too, and splice it in with some stupid voiceovers and shots of Isabella's entrance.

Then she was in sight, on the gravel path leading up to James and the trellis and the pedestal, to the place where he was about to turn her down in front of a national audience while they wore formalwear that cost as much as the engagement rings he'd been shown.

He took a deep breath. There'd be some repercussions from this—largely self-imposed guilt, possibly shouting and crying from Isabella—but at least the deed was nearly done.

Remus stopped them about twenty feet from James, said something quietly to Isabella, and unlinked his arm from hers. She sent him a small smile and, after a moment, looked at James.

They'd done her hair in some complicated updo that had lots of strands hanging down around her bare shoulders, and placed her in a satiny blue gown that trailed behind her as she walked.

It would get so dirty from the dusty gravel. Typical, impractical Rita.

He tried to restrain a frown as Isabella approached. Not just because of the nerves bit, but also because up close she looked a bit peaky. He blamed French food, which he was pretty sure was scientifically not good for the health. The air was probably shit, too, from all their smokers. Luckily he'd get to leave this hellhole soon.

And then, finally, she was standing in front of him. Although she held back just a bit, he stepped forward to wrap her in a tight hug, a pre-apology of sorts.

"Hi," he said into her neck. He pulled back and smiled weakly. "You look amazing."

"So do you," she said.

For so long he'd felt like he could read her, but her expression was as illegible as Arabic to him at the moment. She was smiling...sort of. Her tongue slipped out the tiniest bit to swipe along her bottom lip as she looked up at him.

Regardless of whatever she was feeling, he had to say the same thing.

"Right," he said. "Ah. I think I'm supposed to go first…" He picked up one of her hands—as sweaty as his. Not that he faulted her for this. "Er. So. You, Isabella, you're—you are the sweetest person. I can't tell you how much I—I mean. I can. I came onto this show expecting to be miserable from the first minute. And I was, in a lot of ways. This wasn't—I didn't think I'd find anyone decent on this show. Definitely no one I wanted to spend time with. And then you walked out of that limo, and I—I felt like I knew you. Straight off, I felt comfortable around you."

Her lips had started to press together, thinning out more and more.

He cleared his throat. "I never wanted to lie to you on this show. I didn't think it would ever really come up, honestly, because we were so...in sync. Because you're genuine and soft-hearted, and I really can't say how much I appreciate that—more people could stand to work on those things. So I absolutely want to make sure that you stay in my life—"

"No," she blurted.

James blinked.

He looked down at their hands.

He looked back up at her stricken face.

"Ah, sorry?" he managed.

"I can't do this." She took a step back, yanking her hand out of his grasp. "I can't marry you, James."

"Er—"

Words kept tumbling out of her mouth. "I don't love you," she said, clutching her hand to her chest. "I don't. I wish I did because you're so lovely but I—I don't love you."

James's head pulled back. "What?"

"I meant to tell you earlier but I—I was afraid. I've never—I've never been good at saying what I want—I didn't want to play paintball or do that romance photo shoot or let you push Lily in the lake but I went along with all of it, and I shouldn't have. I'm always letting other people walk all over me—"

"Isabella, please, you don't under—"

"I'm not done!" she said, her voice pitching higher. "Because there's someone—someone I met on this show who keeps reminding me that I can stand up for myself, and that I'm allowed to say what I want, and—"

James's eyes immediately landed on Peter's form behind one of the cameras. "I swear to God, if my friends are three for three on this show—"

Isabella turned to face the cameras across the pond. "I love you, Bonnie Grogan!"

"What?"

She glanced at James, eyebrows drawn together in apology. "We kissed the night we came back from my parents' house. I didn't mean to, I swear, it just—it just happened, and it felt..." She looked back at the camera and took a breath. "Bonnie, I should have told you every time we talked. I should have told you that night—I should have quit the show with you and run off to Nice because—because I'm bi! I'm bi, Mum and Dad, and I'm not sorry, I love Bonnie Grogan!"

For the first time in more than a decade, James's brain had tuned to a channel of static, all words and any trains of thought absent from his mind.

There was just Isabella, lovely Isabella, standing in front of him and breathing heavily, her face flushed, talking to Bonnie in the future when this aired.

Because Isabella was in love with Bonnie.

Isabella was in love with Bonnie Grogan.

Somehow. Which was really bloody weird.

And good, actually, now that he thought about it. Really really good.

Because Isabella wasn't heartbroken over him.

She'd be fine!

She wouldn't care (probably mostly) at all about James picking Lily.

"Isabella," he found himself saying at last.

She spun toward him, grabbing his hand. "I'm so, so sorry, James, I never meant to hurt—"

"No, no, you don't—" He placed his other hand on top of hers. "It's fine. I swear. I wasn't even going to—er. That is. You're...the first girl out."

It took a second for understanding to pass over Isabella's face. "Oh," she said. "Oh, you weren't—"

"No, I, you see—Lily, she's—it's not that I don't like you, it's only…"

"Oh no," Isabella cried, wrenching her hands free. "I've made a complete fool of myself as usual—"

"No, you haven't—that was so moving, and, er, I wish you and Bonnie all the best." He smiled. "Really. No hard feelings at all. I mean, at least not from me—you've every right to be pissed at me, I wasn't allowed to tell you I'd changed my mind and I was feeling sick about it—"

"No, no, I'm fine! I felt so awful, too, and really neither of us—" Her hand flew up to cover her mouth, muffling a noise.

"Was that a laugh?" James asked.

She kept her hand up as she said, "No?"

They looked at each other, both well-dressed enough for a royal event, both in love with someone else, and both enjoying a cool, beautiful wash of relief…

James laughed, too.

Just once at first.

Then again, which set Isabella off, and then they were clutching at each other, trying to stay upright through their fit.

They had both been wanting to break up. They had both fallen in love with others and hadn't known how to tell the other and had most definitely not wanted to do it on camera in front of a national audience and, shortly after, the entire internet.

When they'd calmed down, laughter gone and only a lingering chest ache remaining, James pulled Isabella into a tight hug.

"Go find Bonnie," he said. "Bea's over by my mum, and she has Bonnie's number."

Isabella nodded, her arms still clinging to him. "I can't believe this worked out," she said.

"Yeah," he said, grinning broadly. "I really can't believe it either."

She pecked his cheek, all chaste and friendship, and hurried offset as quickly as heels on gravel could move. Which was not very, but who cared? They were both going to be happy.

As Isabella approached the camera area, Bea came rushing forward to sweep her up into a gigantic hug, both girls squealing with joy.

Because right—it wasn't just James and Lily and Isabella and Bonnie who'd been brought together by this show. Remus had finally found a good match himself. Charlene wouldn't stick around, knowing Sirius, but he'd had a good time as well.

It was all over now.

Or at least, very nearly over.

He just had to propose to his girlfriend of basically two days in front of an eventually-national audience.

No big deal.

And knowing Rita's penchant for keeping him on edge, Lily would be showing up any minute.

He turned his attention to where Isabella had originally entered, his heartbeat thrumming along in his chest, an irrepressible smile on his face despite his nerves.

It was showtime.

---

Lily's posh, French dress was all elegance and class. Though she privately believed that any formal gowns donned for filming should have erred on the wrong side of tacky—a style truly befitting a reality show—she insisted on wearing Euphemia's gift again for the finale anyway.

She wanted to look nice for James, and besides, it was so bloody expensive that she felt she'd have to wear it as much as she could in order to justify the purchase.

What a sight she'd make, twirling through her local Tesco's cereal aisle in a cloud of floaty scarlet chiffon.

Perhaps she'd quit her job in it.

As it turned out, Lily had plenty of time that afternoon to muse on the many adventures which might await her dress, as she sat in a tent near the Palace of Versailles and waited, and waited, and waited, for what seemed like hours, until eventually, a couple of crew members hurried inside to take their positions for filming.

Minutes later, Sirius strode in to escort her to what would happily be her last event in a short but illustrious career as an undercover circus performer, and a camera turned on Lily as she was ushered to her feet.

"Hello, Lily," said Sirius, very formally.

She tried not to let her lips twitch. "Hello, Sirius."

"I shall now escort you to the bachelor, and the final rose ceremony," he continued, his usual shit-eating grin nowhere to be seen, sounding eerily unlike the snarky, dark-humored Sirius she had come to know off camera. "Are you nervous?"

"No," she lied, nerves jittering about in her stomach, "just ready to get this nightmare over with."

She'd already been shepherded into her longest and most excruciating confessional at an ungodly hour that morning. Rita had poked, prodded, and even begged for some insight into Lily's innermost thoughts, and the little Lily had given already felt like far too much candor for one day.

The sea witch was done getting what she wanted, Lily thought, as she linked arms with Sirius and he steered her out of the tent. She and James had a plan, and they were going to smash it, and Rita would be steaming at the ears.

They walked through the trees in silence, mindful of the cameras on their faces. As they came to the edge of the thicket to approach James—and yet another flowery trellis—Lily's nerves were temporarily abated, and her attention caught, by a tall, tanned woman in a lemon yellow dress, who was standing next to Euphemia and waving frantically at her.

"Bea?" she said, moving unconsciously towards her friend, even though Beatrice was standing on the other side of a pond. "What—"

Sirius's arm locked tightly around hers, pulling her back to his side with a slight jerk. "Easy there, Duchess."

"But Beatrice—"

"She's not going anywhere," he said, his lips barely moving. "Go and land my best mate first, yeah?"

Then he brought them to a halt about twenty feet away from where James was standing, and completely blindsided Lily by dropping a kiss on her forehead.

"Have fun," he said, before loping gracefully away.

She blinked at his retreating back before turning her gaze on James, who also appeared to have been staring at Sirius, but met her eyes at the exact same time.

Her heart leapt into her throat. Which was so silly—this proposal wasn't even real…

He was, though. They were. And he looked so handsome in his posh tux, even though Lily liked him so much better in jeans and a t-shirt, and best of all in absolutely nothing.

She walked the remaining distance toward him, holding onto her dress so her wispy skirt wouldn't trail in the gravel, and smiled when she drew up in front of him.

"You're all dressed up," she remarked, though her eyes were carefully searching his face for any inkling of pain or guilt following what must have been an unpleasant interlude with Isabella. "What's the occasion?"

If he was upset, he was doing a suspiciously good job of hiding it. Normally he paraded his emotions around like, well, the parade they were going to throw.

He smiled at her, all openness and honesty. "Found a euro on the ground."

"Must have been a very shiny euro. You're making that face you made when my mum said you were handsomer than all of my exes."

"Yes," he said knowingly. "It's an extremely sparkly euro, one might even say."

Lily imagined that this wasn't the heartfelt, lovelorn monologue that Rita and Euphemia certainly would have wanted James to launch into, and had to suppress a laugh at the thought of how frustrated they were bound to be at that moment.

"Sparkly's good. I like sparkly." She swept a hand along her dress. "Sorry about my own disheveled appearance. Haven't done laundry in a while."

He angled his head just an inch, assessing her figure. "Nothing forces you to rummage for the absolute garbage in your wardrobe like not having done laundry. But don't worry, I won't tell anyone."

Euphemia let out such sharp, loud, and dramatic cry of dismay that Lily had to press her lips together to contain her laughter.

"Right," she said, once the wave of mirth had passed, wondering why Rita hadn't tried to intervene yet. "I hear you have some sort of speech to give and I haven't got all day—lots of laundry to do—so, you know…" She gestured towards him. "Have at it, and try not to break my heart."

"As the lady wishes." He reached out and gently lifted both of her hands, clearing his throat dramatically. "Dearest Lily. Flower of my soul. Your heart is so precious to me that breaking it is the last thing on my mind. Well, second-to-last, right before the idea of ever moving to France."

Their entire plan hinged on their ability to deliver numerous absurdities with a straight face, and Lily was already struggling to keep the corners of her lips in check, even though it wasn't her turn to speak yet.

James gazed into her eyes, putting on a surprisingly decent show of sincerity. "I value your heart more than I value a bacon sandwich," he said, the corners of his lips twitching ever so faintly. "We've shared so many things these past several weeks: stories, cheese, and yes, kisses."

"Cheese-infused kisses, mostly," she agreed.

"No one who saw us on the first night we met—no one—would believe that you and I would be here at the final rose ceremony together. Our passion was not an immediate blaze, but instead a devastating inferno that grew out of a still-hot match dropped onto dry grass."

The people in sound-editing would definitely have a job on their hands removing the unattractive snort she couldn't repress in time.

"I think a lot of people would kill to have an immediate blaze," he said. "They want that fairy tale beginning, where you lock eyes and your heart lurches and everything is magical. But that sort of connection can fizzle out quickly, and no one wants a fizzle."

Lily felt a start—a stutter, really—in a place tucked tightly behind her ribcage. "Um…"

"I don't want a fizzle," James continued. "I want someone who brings me McDonald's fries. I want someone who loves my weird cat. I want someone who gives me a wicked cool spy nickname."

His mock-serious voice had dropped a key into his normal speaking register, and as her heart began to pound in earnest, Lily realized that James no longer appeared to be sticking to the plan.

He definitely wasn't sticking to the plan.

The plan was gone, abandoned, cast aside with his dismissal of those immediate blazes, which had seemed like such a big deal when Lily had been laboring under the belief that she could never compare to what he had with Isabella, but meant nothing in the face of what she and James had grown to feel for each other.

He was looking at her in a way that made him seem shy, almost—tentative and unsure, as if he was waiting for her to weigh in on his derailment of their little scheme. His hands were still wrapped around hers, warm and comforting, but they were shaking a little, or maybe that was her.

"It's okay," she said quietly. Her throat felt a little tight. "It's okay. Keep going."

James coughed as his face grew a little flushed. "Er, right," he said plainly. "Only I forgot the rest of what I was going to say... But I guess the truth of it is, I never, ever, ever expected to find someone like you on this show. Someone who balances me and pushes me and who laughs at me no matter what. Sorry, I meant that to be parallel. The point is, you came out of literally nowhere—sorry, I can't say that, not literally, I'm just trying—I'm trying to say that I love you, Lily Evans. And I didn't see it coming, and you didn't see it coming, and that's—that's pretty fairy tale in its own right, I think."

Lily should have said something, should have had something clever or meaningful or hilarious up her sleeve, but she couldn't really speak. A lump had lodged itself in her windpipe, and her blood felt as if it were stampeding through her veins, moving so fast that she was growing lightheaded.

She nodded, which wasn't much, but it seemed enough to prompt James to carry on.

"I want to travel the world with you and have a family with you and possibly adopt another cat with you, depending on how Algernon feels about it, of course."

It seemed to take an age for him to sink down to one knee. He withdrew a velvet-covered box from his front pocket and snapped it open to reveal the gaudiest, sparkliest golden ring she had ever seen.

"Lily Evans," he said, his eyes fixed utterly on hers. "Will you marry me?"

She barely registered the ring, giving it the barest of skimming glances before all of her focus returned to his handsome face.

The ring wasn't what was important. Neither of them intended for her to keep it, and even if they had, nothing else mattered one whit in the face of the massive, startling announcement he'd just laid down at her feet.

"Do you mean that?" she asked him, squeezing the question past that pesky tightness in her throat. "Do you really love me?"

His hand faltered, dropping an inch. "Er," he said. "I mean, yeah, that's not…" His eyes flicked down to the distasteful ring that was not remotely her style, but which would fetch a terrific sum when she later sold it. "That's real."

"Real," she faintly repeated.

She looked up, tilting back her head to take in her surroundings. Her eyes moved past the pretty trellis, skated over the rose which sat atop a nearby platform, gazed across the pond to where Rita, Euphemia, and all the rest were waiting, and as she turned them back upon James it struck her just how terribly unreal this whole debacle had been.

Lily was standing in an elaborately pretty place she'd never thought to visit, garbed in an elaborately beautiful dress she'd never have chosen, staring down at an elaborately ugly ring she never would have wanted, and the only real thing within a hundred mile radius of the elaborate circus she was part of was the person on one knee in front of her.

"I love you too," she told him.

It was far too soon to say it and she was definitely crazy, but that didn't make it any less true.

He ducked his head, a grin growing on his face, and squeezed his eyes shut. "Wow," he said. "Wow, that's—I didn't think that'd hit me like that, but…wow."

"Well, get used to hearing it," Lily said, with as much of her usual snap as she could muster through the overwhelming swell of emotion she was feeling, "and promise to defend me from your mum later, because I'm about to make her very, very angry."

She lowered herself to her own knees, expensive gown be damned. Her skirt was so light and flimsy, she could feel the damp of the grass against her skin.

"Probably not very traditional," she remarked, "but you and I are on the same level and that's why this works, right? We make each other laugh, and you argue back when I give you shit and I love that, and you do these insanely selfless things for the people you care about just to make them happy, even if it means you're not, which makes me want to shake you and tell you that you need to think about yourself more, but that's fine, right? Because you've got me and I love you, so I'll think about you."

He laughed, wild and giddy and free, and shook his hands slightly in place.

"I really want to focus on the part where you also love me," he said, "but also my arm is cramping from holding out this box, so please just say yes already so I can put this down and kiss you."

"Oh, well if your arm is cramping…" She beamed at him, a laugh bubbling up from the center of her chest. "Yes, James Potter, I will marry you."

For a second, his smile broadened. Then in one swift movement, he set the box on the ground, pushed forward off his bent knee, and reached forward to slide a hand alongside her face as he kissed her. Lily could hear delighted exclamations in the background, but she ignored them, smiling against his lips as they washed meaninglessly over her head.

Her smile grew even brighter when she eventually pulled away.

"Go on then, Jack," she grandly instructed, and held out her left hand. "Do the thing properly."

And even though this part wasn't real—even though they'd agreed that he'd propose with an expensive ring that she could sell to finance her travels, and that his proposal was in no way a legitimate request to spend the rest of their lives together because hello they'd only just met—her stomach was doing all sorts of gymnastics as he lifted the ring from the box and slid it delicately onto her finger.

He kissed her, this time on the cheek, and offered her one of his hands. "Well," he said. "I think—that's all settled then, Ruby. We're in love. We're engaged. And now, finally, we can get the hell out of France."

"Ideally before the sea witch decides to end this series with an impromptu wedding," said Lily, allowing James to pull her to her feet. "But before we return to London and I introduce you to the inside of my wonderfully private bedroom, I believe I'm missing a rose?"

"Oh, er, right." He looked around, as though he'd already forgotten where it was, and then picked it up from the pedestal. "I wish Algernon had been here for this. He could have brought it to you."

On the other side of the pond, Rita had begun to make her way towards them, closely followed by Euphemia and Beatrice, which gave Lily the strongest urge to find the next Eurostar heading back to London and escape, Jack and Ruby style, before either of them could be forced into any further degradation.

She'd suggest it to him later, after whatever confessionals or final shots Rita would insist upon, and they could hightail it off together, just the two of them.

That was how it would be from now on: just the two of them.

Plus Algernon, of course, who would definitely be pleased to learn that Lily was sticking around.

"We can name him grand marshal of the parade to make it up to him," she said, and held out her hand for the rose. "We'll get him a bow tie, but not a hat. I've heard they're insanitary."

He handed her the rose and crooked out an arm for her to loop hers through. "Oh, Ruby," he said. "You truly get me. Please join me in a celebratory trip to McDonald's." He nodded at the horse-drawn carriage pulling up along the path.

"I'd love to," she agreed, and linked her arm with his. "Only this time you can buy the fries."