RICKMAS 2024

The narrow country road twisted and turned through a patchwork of frost-kissed fields, the pale winter sun casting a golden glow on the rolling landscape. Sinclair guided his car carefully along the icy track, humming along to the radio.

John had invited him to a dinner party. With their schedules so at odds, Sinclair leapt at the opportunity. Dinner parties were one of his favorite indulgences, and John’s invitation to his country home had been the perfect excuse to take the car out for a proper spin.

His house came into view at the crest of a hill, a charming brick manor surrounded by tall hedges and a gravel drive. Several cars were already parked outside, and Sinclair spotted a group gathered in the yard, tossing around what appeared to be an American football.

Laughter and animated shouts reverberated in the crisp air, a blended mix of accents. Sinclair slowed for a moment, watching one jump to catch an admittedly terrible throw and land flat on their back with a thud.

“Khan, you’re fired,” the tangle of limbs groaned as they crawled to their feet. Familiar sounding, but Sinclair couldn’t place it. Shrugging, he continued to the door. 

He knocked once before letting himself in, the house’s perpetual warmth immediately enveloping him. Mary greeted him, graciously accepting Sinclair’s contribution to the meal, a fine bottle of wine. It’d long been decided Sinclair’s contributions to dinner parties wouldn’t be culinary.

“Sinclair! About time,” John called from the kitchen. “Coats in the hall, then come through. You’ve got to meet my guests.”

Sinclair grinned, hanging his coat on the rack and stepping into the cozy living room. John’s children tangled around his feet, asking Sinclair what treats he brought them.

“None,” he grinned, tickling Lizzie, John and Mary’s youngest as John Jr. stuck a hand in his trouser pocket.

“You lie, Uncle Sinclair,” the boy cried, triumphantly retrieving two candy bars.

“Oh those are mine,” Sinclair teased, lifting John Jr. in the air. “I got two for after dinner.” 

Once they settled down, Sinclair finally relented and gave the kids their treats. “Need any help, Mary?”

“So you can sneak bites when I’m not looking?” Mary chuckled, motioning to the door. “No, thanks.”

John poured two glasses of whiskey, handing one to Sinclair as they settled into the sofa. “So,” John began, “I invited some of my RAF friends tonight. Thought you’d enjoy meeting them. They’re a good lot.”

“Always happy to meet new people,” Sinclair laughed. “What’s the occasion?”

“None, really,” John replied with a shrug. “Just felt like hosting. Give my people a chance to get to mingle with their new neighbors outside of work.”

Lively chatter from the Americans and RAF officers outside drifted in through the windows. Sinclair leaned casually against the mantle, an amused grin spreading across his face.

“I see they’re enjoying themselves. You didn’t happen to tell your American visitors they’re playing rugby, did you?”

“You can tell them,” John laughed, clapping Sinclair on the shoulder. “Let’s go meet them.”

“Can I tell them you once got stuck in a hedge trying to impress a girl at that pub in Oxford?”

“Absolutely not.”

“We can’t shatter your commanding illusion,” Sinclair snickered. “Scared they won’t straighten their ties just because you walk by anymore?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” John shook his head, chuckling. “They don’t straighten their ties.”

“I saw one fellow nearly drop his drink when you said his name earlier,” Sinclair replied with mock solemnity, taking a sip of his drink.

“Simply ingrained in the culture is all,” John waved dismissively. “Respect the chain of command, follow the protocols. It’s not personal.”

“Oh, it’s personal,” Sinclair teased, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “You’re the picture of discipline. Honestly, I don’t know how you do it.”

“I am when I need to be,” John countered, raising his glass. “But this isn’t the battlefield—it’s a dinner party. So let’s enjoy it.”

“Hear, hear.” Sinclair clinked his glass against John’s. “I’m telling everybody about the hedge story.”

“What are friends for?”

They stepped outside, glasses of whiskey in hand, to take in the chaotic game of American football unfolding on the lawn. Laughter and cheers filled the crisp evening air as men and women darted across the makeshift field, free from the weight of rank and protocol.

“They’re really getting into it,” Sinclair remarked, leaning against the porch railing.

“Work hard, play harder,” John chuckled before addressing his troops. “Don’t embarrass me out there!”

The players whooped and hollered as one team launched the ball in a high arc. Sinclair tracked it with idle interest, until a figure broke from the pack—a lithe individual with flowing brown hair, sprinting toward the ball.

With a leap, they snatched it mid-air, landing lightly and weaving past a handful of would-be tacklers. Cheers erupted as the player dashed over the makeshift end zone line, triumphantly spiking the ball. Sinclair tilted his head in interest.

As the victor turned, brushing a stray strand of hair out of their face, Sinclair froze.

It was the woman from the bookstore.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” he murmured.

John followed Sinclair’s gaze. “What is it?”

“Her,” Sinclair murmured, gesturing toward the field.

“What about her?”

“I’ve met her,” Sinclair explained, setting his glass down on the railing.

John’s brow furrowed. “Captain Grayson? Didn’t realize you’d know anybody here. Thought can’t say I’m surprised.”

“We crossed paths at a bookstore,” Sinclair clarified, his voice casual. “She seemed… determined.”

John snorted. “From what I hear, that tracks. Heard she dodges senior officers like they’re out to steal her lunch.”

Sinclair raised an eyebrow. “Really? That’s unusual, isn’t it?”

“Typically, those that avoid the pomp and circumstance were prior enlisted,” John replied. “She keeps to herself for the most part.”

They both turned their attention back to the game, where Captain Grayson laughed as her teammates mobbed her in celebration. Sinclair’s lips quirked into a small smile.

“Seems she’s made an exception here,” he noted, watching her banter with the others, completely at ease.

“Yeah, well,” John said, shrugging. “Different circumstance. No rank, no uniforms, relaxed rules.”

Sinclair hummed, his eyes lingering on her as she tossed the ball to a teammate and took up an offensive position. There was an energy to her—a vibrancy he hadn’t noticed before.

A tall man from earlier—lean and athletic, with the easy confidence of someone who knew their place in the world—threw an arm around her shoulders. She laughed, swatting him playfully as they exchanged a few words.

Sinclair’s smile faded. “Ah,” he said, leaning back against the railing. “I see.”

“See what?” John asked, glancing over.

“She’s spoken for,” Sinclair said, nodding toward the pair.

John frowned. “Who, Grayson? Nah, I doubt it. At least, no one’s said anything.”

Sinclair gestured with his glass. “Tall chap with his arm around her. Seems pretty cozy.”

John followed his gaze and snorted. “That’s Khan, one of the crew chiefs, I believe. Trust me, they’re not a thing.”

“How do you know?”

“Fraternization is career suicide across the board,” John explained. “Some lines you don’t cross.”

Sinclair raised an eyebrow but didn’t press the issue. Instead, he took another sip of his whiskey, his thoughts circling.

“She’s… interesting,” Sinclair admitted after a moment.

“Interesting how?”

Sinclair gave a nonchalant shrug, though his tone betrayed a flicker of intrigue. “Just…interesting.”

John smirked, pleased somebody had finally caught his friend’s eye. He’d have to do some digging, but seeing Sinclair show interest in anybody was a start. Returning his gaze to the field where Grayson called out directions, her voice clear and commanding, he leaned in conspiratorially.

“Do you plan on staying hi or staring at her like a fish?”

“Neither.” Sinclair shifted uncomfortably. John took no notice, cupping his hands around his mouth.

“Captain Grayson,” he called, momentarily stopping the game. “Would you come here please?”

“Nice throw, Anderson,” Olivia drawled, hands on her hips as the ball spiraled through the air—straight into the snow, several yards short of its target. “Didn’t realize we were playing for the other team.”

Anderson groaned, trudging to retrieve the ball. They’d risen through the ranks together, been roommates for officer training. “You want to do better, Grayson? Be my guest.”

“Oh, I would,” Olivia shot back, smirking, “but I don’t want to embarrass you in front of your new boyfriend.”

Her friend flushed a deep crimson, glancing toward the porch where an RAF officer nursed a beer, chatting with a couple of his peers. And occasionally throwing looks Anderson’s way.

“Not my boyfriend,” Anderson hissed, subconsciously trying to smooth her frizzy hair.

“Could’ve fooled me,” Khan cut in, grinning as he jogged past to reset. “You’ve been giving him the puppy-dog eyes all day.”

Anderson threw the ball, this time managing a clean pass to a teammate. “At least I have options,” she shot back, glaring at both of them.

“That’s right,” Olivia teased, her voice light. “Set your sights high. Nothing like a polished RAF boy to keep you warm on these cold nights.”

Anderson rolled her eyes, but Olivia noticed the faint smile tugging at her lips. “You’re blushing, Lieutenant. Focus up, or I’m handing the ball to Khan and his butter fingers next.”

“Rude,” Khan chimed in, tossing the ball between his hands. “You know I’d fumble it on purpose just to spite you.”

“And to think I regularly trust you with my life.”

The three of them dissolved into laughter as they huddled together, their teammates joining in with good-natured ribbing. It wasn’t often they got to let loose like this, and Olivia relished it. Out here, there was no rank, no regulations—just camaraderie.

“Anybody catching your eye?” Anderson asked slyly, checking out their competition once more. “Best way to get over somebody is under another.”

“I’ve sworn off military guys. Find me an easygoing fella with a nice normal job and I’ll consider.”

“Jenny will happily take you bar crawling,” Khan offered. Jenny was the third of Olivia’s friend group and Khan’s wife.

But even as she laughed along, Olivia felt a familiar twinge in her chest, a reminder of why she kept herself at arm’s length. She knew they were right: David wasn’t here. He wasn’t lingering in the background, waiting to ruin her night. As a young professional exploring her new home for the next few years, she had every right to pursue happiness.

Still, old habits were hard to break.

As they regrouped, Olivia caught a movement out of the corner of her eye, a figure leaning casually against the porch railing. She didn’t recognize him at first, but something about his posture and the way he held his glass triggered a memory.

And then it clicked. The bookshop.

“Earth to Grayson,” Anderson interrupted her thoughts, tossing her the ball. She caught it reflexively. “You still with us?”

“Yeah,” she murmured. Her gaze flicked back to the porch, where the man—Sinclair, wasn’t it?—stood watching the game, a faint smile playing on his lips.

For a moment, Olivia considered approaching him, but she quickly dismissed the thought. He was likely one of the commanding officer’s friends, and she had no intention of getting caught in the awkward dance of formalities and veiled attempts at networking. That world exhausted her, and she’d come here to unwind, not to play politics.

She turned back to her team. “Alright, let’s run that play again. Anderson, try to throw it to one of our guys for a change.”

The group laughed as they fell back into position, and Olivia forced herself to focus on the game, ignoring the curious tug in her chest that urged her to look back at the porch.

The next play was a mess of snow and shoving, ending with Khan making an exaggerated dive for the end zone that left everyone in stitches. Olivia stood back, catching her breath, when a voice cut across the field.

“Captain Grayson, would you come here please?”

Suppressing a groan, she dusted the dirt from her hands and jogged past her cheering teammates, mentally cataloging any potential chirps somebody took the wrong way. Whatever this was, she hoped it would be quick.

“Captain Grayson,” the much higher ranking officer greeted, raising his glass. “I wanted to introduce you to a friend of mine.”

“Sir,” she replied automatically, though her tone was casual. Her eyes flicked to Sinclair, who looked both amused and slightly awkward.

“This is Sinclair Bryant,” John said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Sinclair, this is Captain Olivia Grayson.”

“I remember you,” Olivia grinned, crossing her arms.

“We did meet briefly,” Sinclair agreed, his awkwardness melting away. “You were scaling Everest, if I recall.”

Her lips twitched despite herself. “Then you enthralled me with redwood tree facts.”

“Sounds about right,” John quipped, taking a sip of his drink. “Sinclair’s a wealth of random information. Always spouting them off at get togethers.”

Olivia raised an eyebrow expectantly. “Oh yeah, hit me with one.”

“Well, erm,” Sinclair stuttered, the tips of his ears turning red at being put on the spot. “Did you know lemons float in water and limes sink? Quite fascinating really.”

“No way.” Despite herself, Olivia smiled. It was indeed a random fact. “Got any more?”

“Oh yes.” Sinclair excitedly nodded, pleased he hadn’t been told to be quiet down. Natalie often scolded him about how embarrassing it was to hear him yammer on about things she deemed inconsequential. He pointed to the trees nearby. “See those owls over there?”

Olivia turned, sharply scanning the foliage for the elusive birds. Finally a branch shifted and she caught sight of a barn owl.

“Yep, got it.”

“A group of them is called parliament.”

“Makes sense,” Olivia murmured. “Given they’re a symbol of wisdom.”

“Exactly!” Sinclair started gesticulating exuberantly. “Well, not that I’d call parliament wise nowadays. But the Greeks were! And so was Athena! Which is who they named Athens for.”

As Sinclair continued talking, Olivia glanced towards the base commander who met her gaze with a wink before tossing back the rest of his drink.

“Well, I’ll leave you two to catch up,” John said, stepping back toward the house for a refill. “Don’t scare him off, Captain.”

She found she could listen to Sinclair talk for hours if only because of his hypnotic voice. Somehow the conversation shifted to M&M’s before Khan called her back to play.

“Cap, if you don’t come back we’re gonna lose to these…” he looked at one of the RAF guys for clarification. “You call each other wankers right?”

“Watch it, yank!”

Sinclair chuckled, motioning back to the yard. “It appears your men need you.”

“Khan’s not my man,” Olivia replied automatically. What possessed her to do so, she had no idea. But she internally cringed at her comment. “Well, he is in a way, I guess. Couldn’t fly without him.”

“Ah, a dynamic duo,” Sinclair teased, mirth shining in his eyes.

“Nah, that’s his wife’s burden.”

“Motivational coach?”

She snorted softly, shaking her head. “Khan just likes an excuse to yell at me without consequences.”

“Cap, I swear to god if you take any longer, I’m losing on purpose!” Khan yelled, theatrically pointing at his watch, exaggerating every motion to get her attention.

“Duty calls.”

Sinclair tipped his glass toward her. “Go show those wankers who’s boss, Cap.”

“Don’t go starting that,” Olivia laughed over her shoulder.

“Oh, come now,” Sinclair replied with mock offense. “I’m a cultural sponge.”

Olivia rolled her eyes but couldn’t help the faint laugh that escaped as she returned to the game.

“What happened to no more military men?” Anderson murmured in the huddle.

“Yeah, I know,” Olivia sighed, lining up for the next snap. It was a shame really. Sinclair seemed like a good dude.

The dining room buzzed with chatter and laughter as the guests settled around the long table, plates brimming with roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, and all the trimmings. Candles flickered, casting a warm glow across the room, and John’s wife, Mary, moved deftly between the guests, ensuring everyone had what they needed.

Sinclair found his seat easily—right next to Olivia. John’s handiwork, no doubt.

“Ah, Captain Grayson,” Sinclair said, pulling out his chair and sitting down with an easy grin. “Fancy seeing you here. Again.”

Olivia gave him a polite, albeit tight, smile. “Seems he likes to mix up his seating arrangements.”

“Smart man,” Sinclair said, reaching for his glass of wine. “Keeps things interesting.”

Olivia focused on her plate, picking up her fork.

“So,” Sinclair began, breaking the silence, “how long have you been stationed here?”

“Just arrived.”

“Ah, fresh off the plane. Welcome to the UK.” He tilted his head. “And how are you finding it so far?”

“It’s… fine,” she said, keeping her tone neutral.

Sinclair chuckled softly, clearly unbothered by her clipped responses. “Fine. High praise, indeed.”

Olivia glanced at him, her eyes narrowing slightly. “Shouldn’t you be sitting with your unit?”

“My unit?” Sinclair echoed, thoroughly caught off guard. “Oh, I see. You think I’m one of John’s men.”

“Aren’t you?” she asked, her tone skeptical.

“John and I go way back. University friends.”

She stared at him, her fork hovering mid-air. “So… you’re not military?”

“Not even a little,” Sinclair said, clearly enjoying her surprise. Fuck, he was adorable. “I’d be a terrible soldier.”

“Huh.” Olivia studied him for a moment, ignoring the odd lightness in her chest. “Guess that explains the hair.”

Sinclair touched his feathery mop with mock offense. “What’s wrong with my hair?”

“Nothing at all,” she decided, wondering if it was as soft as it looked.

“It appears we both fell prey to wrongful perceptions,” Sinclair murmured, offering a sweet smile.

They fell into a more comfortable silence as the conversation around the table grew louder. Olivia took a sip of her wine, stealing a quick glance at Sinclair. There was something disarming about him—his easy demeanor, his lack of pretense. It was a stark contrast to the rigid formality she was used to.

“So, Captain Grayson,” Sinclair said after a moment, his voice light. “Do you always terrify your teammates on the field, or was today a special occasion?”

Olivia arched an eyebrow, a faint smirk tugging at her lips. “Terrify? You mean effectively lead?”

“Right,” Sinclair chuckled, a rich sound, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “Because shouting ‘stop sucking’ is the epitome of motivational leadership.”

She laughed despite herself, shaking her head. “You were eavesdropping?”

“Observing,” Sinclair corrected, raising his glass. “It’s a fine art.”

Olivia found herself relaxing, her earlier wariness fading. A few seats down Anderson gave her a quick thumbs up before returning her attention to her RAF boy.

“And you?” she asked, turning the conversation back to him. “What do you do when you’re not… observing?”

Sinclair grinned, setting his glass down. “Oh, I’m a stock analyst. Nothing nearly as exciting as flying planes or shouting at people on lawns.”

Olivia rolled her eyes but smiled. “Sounds interesting.”

“To me, yes. But I’d bore you to tears with the details.”

The conversation flowed more easily after that, with Olivia gradually letting her guard down. By the time dessert arrived, she was laughing at one of Sinclair’s stories, forgetting for a moment the weight of her responsibilities.

And Sinclair, for his part, was thoroughly captivated. Which is why he asked her on a date before he left.