Chapter One: The Hero and the Hummus
It started with a rogue tub of hummus.
Sophie Hale had no intention of getting into a public food fight at Tesco, but the universe clearly had other plans.
It was raining (obviously), her umbrella had turned inside out (also obviously), and her hoodie was now clinging to her like a desperate ex. As she navigated the reduced section, clutching a meal deal like it was a life preserver, she spotted it: red pepper hummus, last one on the shelf, glistening with 10% off stickers and desire.
At the same time, a hand reached for it. A large, ringed hand. Masculine. Tattooed knuckles. Calloused fingers. Sophie’s sarcasm radar started pinging.
She looked up. The owner of the hand was… stupidly attractive.
Dark hair. Dark eyes. Jawline sharp enough to slice cheddar. He wore a leather jacket like he’d just stepped out of a BBC crime drama. Probably named something like Johnny or Joey, or something annoyingly brooding.
“I believe I touched it first,” he said, in a voice that made it sound like he was narrating a war documentary. Sophie raised an unimpressed eyebrow. “I believe this is hummus, not a sword in stone.” He smirked, and for a moment she hated how symmetrical his face was. “Fair enough. But I am rather emotionally invested.” “Oh yeah? You and the hummus go way back?” “We’ve had our ups and downs.” He held it out. “Take it. Ladies first.” “No, no, I insist. You look like a man who eats hummus in the dark while contemplating his own heroism.” He blinked. Then laughed—a full, real one, like he hadn’t expected it. “Wow. That was incredibly specific.”
Sophie shrugged, wiping rain from her forehead. “I have a gift.” She turned to walk away but heard him call out. “Wait—what’s your name?” She paused, glanced over her shoulder. “Sophie. Why?” He gave a little bow, oddly formal. “I’m Noah. I think we’re destined to fight over condiments again.” She raised her sandwich in salute. “Well, Noah, try the caramelised onion one next time. Less emotional damage.”
And just like that, she was gone—wet, sarcastic, and unknowingly lodged in Noah’s brain.
Chapter Two: The Man Who Saved a Pigeon (and Wanted a Medal)
Three days later, Sophie saw him again. Naturally, he was being heroic.
She was on her lunch break, sitting in the town square with a coffee and her ancient, battered copy of Pride and Prejudice, when a commotion broke out by the fountain. A pigeon had gotten its foot caught in a plastic ring. People gathered, muttering things like “Oh, poor thing” and “Where’s the RSPCA when you need them?” Then—like a knight in skinny jeans—Noah strolled into the circle. “No worries, I’ve got this,” he declared, pulling out a Swiss army knife like some kind of urban Bear Grylls.
Sophie watched, torn between admiration and second-hand embarrassment. He crouched, gently untangled the pigeon, whispered something to it (probably about destiny), and set it free. The crowd applauded. Someone even said, “That lad deserves a medal!” He turned and caught Sophie watching. Their eyes met across a crowd of pigeons and pensioners.
“Let me guess,” Sophie said as he walked over. “You do that every Tuesday?” Noah grinned. “Only when my fan club needs reminding.” “You’re a menace,” she said, sipping her coffee. He sat beside her uninvited. “You read Austen in public and judge heroic strangers. Who is the real menace?” She tried not to smile. “You talk like a man who rescues pigeons because he has unresolved trauma.” “And you talk like someone who pretends everything’s fine but definitely cries during car adverts.”
Sophie froze. Just for a second.
Bullseye.
He immediately noticed and softened. “Sorry. That was too far.” She waved it off, too quickly. “You were only wrong about the car adverts. I cry during dog reunions.” He nodded solemnly. “Respect.” They sat in silence for a beat. Then he asked, “Want to grab coffee sometime?” “I already have one.” “Tomorrow?” Sophie hesitated. Sarcasm was usually her shield. But something about Noah made her want to try. Just a little. “Only if you promise not to rescue any animals mid-conversation.” “No promises,” he said. “Hero complex. Very hard to turn off.” She smirked. “I noticed.”