They made everything sound so enticing—no, she’d never considered writing a comic before—yes, it did sound fun—pigeon fancying? Yes! She’d just adopted an orphaned chick who lived in the nest outside her window, his name’s Baby Gordon, only maybe he’s a girl and—oh, of course she’d sign the mailing list . . . A pin badge? Thank you so much . . . Sign here to petition for UK students to maintain access to the Erasmus scheme? I don’t know what that is, but—ooh? A pen. Of course. Sign here? Right?

It was impossible to say no. Everyone was so charming and friendly and smiling, and they all had such exciting merchandise. By the time Daisy had reached the far end of the room, her hand was cramped from all the mailing lists she’d signed up for and her Totes a Fan of Totes! bag was stuffed to the seams with swag.

As she turned the corner, Jonathan’s familiar voice boomed across the crowd. Daisy saw him thrust a clipboard forcefully at a group of passing girls and cajole them into signing up for women’s rugby. Panicking, not wanting to become his next victim, Daisy dived behind the nearest booth so fast that her tote bag slipped from her shoulder.

The contents cascaded across the floor, pin badges and coasters and pens and sweets and key rings all skittering and bouncing and rolling everywhere.

“I’m so sorry!” Daisy yelped to no one in particular, falling to the floor in an attempt to scoop everything back up, somehow scattering things farther afield.

“Don’t worry about it.” Someone was crouching down next to her, a slim, perfectly manicured hand resting on Daisy’s wrist. “There’s no need to panic.”

Which was all very well for this stranger to say, but she wasn’t the one in danger of signing up for women’s rugby.

“Hi,” the stranger said, lips parting in a wide smile that crinkled the corners of her deep brown eyes. “Do you need a hand?”

Daisy wasn’t capable of anything more than nodding and staring. This woman was possibly the most intimidatingly beautiful person Daisy had ever seen. She had glossy black hair and a face of clean lines and cute curves, with the kind of light Mediterranean-brown skin that Susan might have had if she bothered with things like exercise and healthy eating and sunlight.

When the woman reached forward to pick up a handful of badges, the bare skin of her arm brushed Daisy’s hand, leaving Daisy feeling as if she’d been warmed by the sun.

Turning the badges over to read what they said, the newcomer raised her eyebrows, which were strong and dark and sharply angled at the apex, like the outstretched wings of a seabird.

“Are you trying to collect a full suite of acronyms?” she asked, pressing one into Daisy’s hand. “What’s H&S?”

“Hide-and-Seek,” Daisy managed.