“I just didn’t want to find out you had a boyfriend by accidentally flirting with you.”
Her cheeks colour slightly atthat.
“I’m not married,” she says.
Something in my chest settles.
“And I’m not seeing anyone,” she adds. “Mostly because I didn’t think I wanted to.”
That word sits there.
Didn’t.
She hesitates, then adds with a small, slightly awkward smile, “But aren’t you very busy with all the… models?”
I raise an eyebrow. “Models?”
She gestures vaguely. “Going by the media.”
I can’t help the small exhale of amusement.
“Right,” I say. “That version of me.”
“That sounded judgemental,” she says quickly. “I didn’t mean—”
“It’s fine,” I interrupt gently. “It’s not completely wrong. Just… outdated.”
She watches me carefully now.
“Before Alfie,” I say, “I dated like an idiot.”
“That sounds very self-aware.”
“I was younger. Peak of my time as a player. Too much money. Too much attention. Not enough sense.”
“And then?”
“And then one of those very clever life choices resulted in Alfie,” I say simply.
She doesn’t react with shock. Just listens.
“And after that,” I continue, “everything changed.”
“How?”
I shrug slightly. “You grow up fast when someone depends on you. The late nights stop being interesting. The wrong kind of attention stops feeling flattering.”
“That sounds… healthy.”
“It’s also practical,” I say. “I’m not a monk. I’ve dated even after Alfie. But nothing serious. And nothing… chaotic.”
She nods slowly.
“And the stories in the media?” she asks.
“I didn’t exactly rush to correct them,” I admit. “A few friends helped with appearances now and then. The occasional dinner where people could take photos. It keeps the narrative simple.”
“You’re saying some of those stories were… strategic?”
