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Getting a bit more chance to write now that the school year is nearly done so expect more chapters!

Hope you're enjoying my story!

xxx

I had taken my Uncle Peter's advice and rang one of my dad's old colleagues who now, luckily for me, happened to be the Chief Constable of Beaconsfield.

"Well that's what we had all hoped for." He had said in response to the news of my solo acquisition of the family home. "It's not that we don't like your brothers...!" he had said quickly, mistaking my silence as I had fumbled to find my Oyster Card for annoyance at his joy. "It's just that, well, we like you more." he sighed. "I didn't mean to offend."

"Oh, seriously, none taken." I had replied. "They're not the best, I'll admit."

"Well, I'll get all the men down to the house to wait for your brother."

"You don't need to send all of them..." I had said.

"You're joking!" he roared with laughter. "This is the most exciting thing that's ever happened!"

It was true. This probably was the most exciting thing that had ever happened in the sleepy town of Beaconsfield. Prior to my situation, the most prolific incident that had taken place had been when an award winning pumpkin had been stolen before the yearly vegetable judging competition. I really wish that I was joking about this, but I wasn't. The owner of the award winning pumpkin, a farmer called Mr. Tom had awoken to find his most prized possession missing and had alerted the police. The 2000 competition had been cancelled out of respect for his loss, the police (including my father, sadly) had launched an investigation and it had even made the front page of the local newspaper. Long story short – it was the cows. Not his rival as most people suspected.

I had been heading towards the War Museum to meet Steve and Charlotte when I had received a call from Arthur, the local locksmith. He had promised that he would change all the locks in the house for free if I would buy him a pint next time I was home. I really liked Arthur. He was a village celebrity. I swear that he had celebrated his 100th birthday when I was 10. Nine years later, he was still going strong. Last I had heard he was having a very heated relationship with a widow in the village and the two of them had been thrown out of church for "canoodling." Not very Christian of them apparently. I had promised Arthur his pint and thanked him for his interest in protecting the house from my eldest brother. I had, in the midst of all my phone calls, received several very angry texts from George and had now read the word bitch so many times that it had lost all of its meaning.

I had spoken briefly with Steve when running towards the tube station, an accomplishment in five inch heels, and briefed him on the bare bones of my meeting with the triplets but he had started hyperventilating after the mention of £150,000 so I promised I would fill him in on the rest of the gory details once I met up with him and Charlotte at the recruitment day. "Just follow the signs for medical." he had said, in between large gasps of air.

I had gained entrance to the building with minimal fuss. There was airport style security, I had been asked to take my shoes off, and walk through a metal detector before I was handed a pass, a map highlighting all of the stands, and a bag filled with the usual stuff, pens, a mug etc etc.

"And don't forget to visit our shooting range to show off your skills." the girl had pointed to the crowded stand which stood just right of the entrance. "Not real bullets of course!" she laughed manically. "Special paint filled rubber bullets that show the point of impact."

I'm not sure what it was about my appearance that made it look like I was off to enlist, but I thanked her anyway and walked into the throng of people milling around the Museum. Funnily enough, I was more than capable of firing a gun. On my fourteenth birthday, around about the same time that my boobs had made an appearance and my legs had stretched themselves out, my dad had taught me how to shoot. "So that you will be able to protect yourself." he had said, the picture of fatherly adoration. In reality, he wanted every single male in the village to know that he had access to guns should they ever come near me. I was just a pawn in his overprotective madness. I pulled my phone from the pocket of my shorts and found Steve's number. Straight to voicemail.

"If you're cute, leave your name and number. If you're that weird guy that stroked my leg on the tube, you can also leave your number. I like your forwardness."

I tried him three more times. And then Charlotte. Both phones went straight to voicemail. The map was in the bag they had handed me at the entrance. I'd just have to do this the old fashioned way.

"Lola?"

I knew the voice instantly. The hair stood on the back of my neck.

"Go away Tristan." I kept my eyes on the map. "I'm really not in the mood for you today."

"But I just wanted to talk to you."

"I know you do, that's why I'm telling you to go away."

I couldn't find medical on the map. The bloody stupid map. Tristan's hand found its way around my wrist. I looked up at him. He was very good looking. Thick chocolate brown hair and grey eyes that shone brightly. He always had a good tan and his body was firm and muscly from hours spent rowing for the University. In my heels I was the same height as him. I stared him down.

"I said everything that I needed to." I told him bluntly, yanking my wrist from his grasp and turning on my heel. It was better to walk and hope that I stumbled upon the medical section rather than try and find it on that bloody ridiculous map.

"My mother said that she misses you." Tristan said, following me.

I rolled my eyes. His mother was a complete nightmare of perfectly coiffed hair, Chanel No5 and kitten heeled shoes.

"Tell her that the feeling isn't mutual."

On my first meeting with her, she had given me a grilling similar to that of a Spanish Inquisition. How regular were my periods? Any history of cancer or heart disease? Were my teeth naturally straight or had I worn braces? Had my mother had any trouble conceiving? Was I happy to give up working to raise my children?

Answers? Yes, very regular. Almost to the hour. No cancer or heart disease. Naturally straight. No, she had birthed four children in as many years – I'd have said she was a beacon of gynaecological health and no, I had set my career goals at a very high standard for a reason. I wasn't going to be anybody's trophy wife. She had pursed her lips at me and whispered furiously into Tristan's ear. I would have to be reigned in before our engagement and subsequent marriage. Remember, this was our first meeting. Up to that point, Tristan had been a very drunken one night stand that had taken place a week earlier. I wasn't sure I wanted to share a car ride back to London with him let alone my life and my womb. I had come to realise that his mother and father were pushing for him to meet a nice girl with good genes that he could continue on his family's, actually very impressive, lineage with. There was a Lordship in there somewhere and several piles of land that all belonged to him when his father finally passed away. All I remember was drinking far too much and trying to figure out whether or not his mother had had a boob job. She had, as it turns out.

I continued to walk through the crowds of people, my eyes scanning for any sign that would hint as to my proximity to the medical corps. Tristan stayed on my heels the entire time twittering on and on about love and soul mates and how he hadn't realised what he'd had until it was gone. I span around. "Isn't that a Counting Crows song?" I asked.

He looked at me blankly. I rolled my eyes and turned back around. Somebody called his name causing him to turn around. I ran off while I could.

"Hey blondie!"

The voice was American. I ignored the call and continued to push past people. Steve had mentioned a sign. I couldn't see any sign.

"Yo! BLONDIE!" I growled as the American voice filled my head once again. "THE BLONDE WITH BLOWJOB LIPS IN THE FUCK ME HEELS."

"WHAT?!" I exploded, turning my head in the direction that the voice was coming from.

A man in uniform grinned back at me.

"Just wanted to say hello."

I stared at him. He leant back against the table behind him and folded his arms. He was handsome in that American heart throb way. Golden tan, perfect white teeth, blue eyes and closely shorn blonde hair. He was grinning.

"Just had to make sure you were real and not just a figment of my imagination."

I laughed.

"Cute."

"Why don't you come over here and take a seat?" he asked. "Your legs must be tired because you've been running through my mind all day."

"Wow." I said. I turned and looked over my shoulder to check for any sign of Tristan. Nothing. I looked back at the American. "You are really quite good at this."

"I've got more if you want to hear them."

I walked over to him. "One more." I smiled. "And then you can direct me towards the medics."

"Why the medics?" he asked.

I looked at the sign behind his table. Army Rangers.

"What are the Army Rangers?" I asked.

He turned and looked at the sign. "Oh, y'know..." He shrugged. "Just the baddest, meanest sons of bitches that you've ever met."

I cocked an eyebrow and looked at him.

"You got a boyfriend in the medics?" he asked. "I pegged you more as an SAS kinda girl."

The man was practically speaking in tongues. The SAS? I turned and looked over my shoulder for any sign of Tristan before I turned back to him.

"My friend is enlisting in the medics." I said. "No boyfriend."

"Your friend the cute dark haired girl? Big boobs?"

"Yes!" I shouted. At least I knew that Charlotte was somewhere in the vicinity.

"And no boyfriend?" he smiled. "And I can only use one more line on you? One chance to make you mine?"

I grinned and he frowned in concentration.

"Okay..." He beamed at me. "I got it!" He jumped up and walked over to me. "Just think of the story we can tell the grandkids."

I smirked. "Okay, Romeo. Hit me with your best shot."

"You must be Jamaican." He said.

I frowned.

"Because Jamaican me crazy." He smiled and looked at me wide-eyed, waiting for my reaction. "Come on! That gets me a kiss at least!"

I was laughing. Hard. The kind of laughing that hurts your stomach and makes you look goofy. I nodded. "One kiss." I pointed to my cheek. "Cheek – not lips."

"You're playing hard to get..." he smiled and stood in front of me. "I like that." He placed his hands on my shoulders. "But nobody wants to see a kiss on the cheek."

I looked around, suddenly acutely aware that we had drawn an audience because hey, nothing says look at me like wearing tiny leather shorts and electric blue nosebleed heels. I looked into his blue eyes. They were the same colour as the ocean and so perfectly glass like that I could see my reflection in them. Normally, I would have walked away but I felt different. I was the same old me but I had a new invigoration coursing through my blood. I had a feeling that this wasn't the person that I was going to spend the rest of my life with, but hey, my dad had said it. Find somebody who looks at you like you're his everything. This wasn't my future husband, but he was looking at me like I was all his Christmases wrapped in one.

"Do I at least get to find out your name first?" I asked.

He grinned like a cheshire cat and dropped his arms to my waist. Effortlessly, he shifted my weight so that I was resting in his arms and he dipped me. Straight up old school Hollywood style.

"Corporal Dunn, Ma'am." He smiled. "Very pleased to meet your acquaintance."

And he said no more. He pressed his lips against mine firmly and my head began to spin. I closed my eyes and let him kiss me. Corporal Dunn. A complete stranger. And hey... it felt pretty nice. As quickly as our kiss had started, it was over, and he was shifting my weight back over to me and setting me on my feet. I'll admit. My knees were like jelly.

"Am I allowed to know the name of the future Mrs. Dunn?" he asked, grinning at me. "Or do I have to wait until our wedding day?"

I opened my mouth to reply but was saved the bother. A hand appeared on my shoulder. I felt the cygnet ring on the left pinky digging against my shoulder blade. I groaned inwardly.

"Her name is Lola." Tristan answered. "And she's my girlfriend."