**Feminine Wiles**
To this day, Oliver remains a free man. He had been dead serious about getting married, but the logic of his fiancée, Poppy, utterly escaped him.
When he proposed, they’d been dating for about a year. The initial whirlwind romance had settled, and Oliver realised she was the one he wanted by his side—someone he couldn’t stop looking at or listening to.
“Poppy, will you marry me?” he declared, knee on the ground as tradition demands, holding open a ring box with a gleaming diamond and clutching an enormous bouquet in his other hand.
Poppy wasn’t entirely surprised—she’d sensed something was brewing—but she still gasped with delight.
“Of course, darling, of course!” she agreed without hesitation.
Poppy was a knockout, but Oliver wasn’t exactly shabby either—tall, athletic, with a buzz cut and a wardrobe that leaned heavily towards sporty.
“I want you to have a little girl who looks just like you,” he grinned.
“Anytime!” Poppy laughed.
Wedding planning kicked off. Oliver had no idea how much was involved.
“Poppy, this is absolute madness,” he groaned as she dragged him from shop to shop. “I never imagined it’d be this much fuss.”
Turns out, you can’t just waltz into a wedding without veils, shoes, ribbons, stockings, and God knows what else. He’d naively assumed it was all rings, registries, and done.
Finally, Poppy’s frenzy calmed. With the wedding still weeks away, Oliver exhaled—until she came home from work and dropped a bombshell.
“Ollie, my boss is sending me on a week-long training course—out in the countryside. So, we’ll be apart. Maybe it’s for the best—test our commitment before the big day.”
“Brilliant timing, your boss,” Oliver muttered. “Doesn’t he know we’re getting married?”
“He does. But it’s not like I’m leaving on the wedding day. Besides, this means a promotion and a proper pay rise. We could use the money.”
“Oh, and while I’m away, Sophie will keep an eye on you,” she added casually.
“Sophie? That’s the last thing I need,” Oliver bristled. “Don’t you trust me?”
“Trust has nothing to do with it. Leaving you unsupervised would be reckless. So, Sophie’s on duty.”
Sophie, Poppy’s best mate since secondary school, was the maid of honour. Oliver couldn’t stand her. Not that she wasn’t attractive—blonde, fit, and always dressed to impress—but she was everywhere. Poppy dragged her along like an accessory, and it drove him mad. She even crashed their dinners and occasionally slept over in the spare room.
Oliver once quipped, “Please tell me Sophie won’t be joining us on our wedding night?”
At the airport, Sophie tagged along like a third wheel. They waved Poppy off, and Oliver dropped Sophie home, relieved to be rid of her.
Three days later, his mates invited him fishing. Perfect—beers, a sauna, and bloke talk.
“Might as well enjoy my last taste of bachelor freedom,” he thought, dozing off contentedly.
Then Sophie rang. “Ollie, everything alright?”
“Peachy,” he said.
“Need anything? I could—”
“Nope, all good. I’m a grown man, thanks.”
“Fine, don’t get snippy. Actually, I need a favour.”
His guard went up. “What?”
“Our mutual friend—me and Poppy’s old classmate, Emily—is throwing a big birthday bash at a countryside pub. My car’s kaput. Fancy driving me? Poppy said it’s fine if you come along.”
Oliver groaned inwardly. Fishing with the lads sounded infinitely better.
“Come on, Ollie, please?” she wheedled. “Everyone’s coupled up, and I’ll look pathetic alone. Besides, Poppy will love knowing you’re under my watch.”
Reluctantly, he agreed, resisting the urge to vent to Poppy. If she’d enlisted Sophie as his babysitter, so be it.
By Friday evening, a glamorous Sophie—reeking of expensive perfume—hopped into his car. He grudgingly admitted she looked stunning. Maybe the night wouldn’t be a total write-off.
At the pub, Sophie clung to his arm, greeting everyone while Oliver felt like a spare part. Champagne flowed.
“Relax, have a drink,” she urged.
“I’m driving!”
“One glass won’t kill you.”
Under the table’s amused gaze, he downed it. Then another. And another. By midnight, he was smashed.
“You’re wrecked,” Sophie cooed. “Good thing I booked us a room.”
He barely remembered stumbling upstairs.
Morning came. His head throbbed. Water ran in the shower. Then Sophie emerged—dripping wet, gloriously naked.
What happened next was a blur of passion.
They drove home in silence, oddly satisfied. Finally, Oliver spoke.
“Soph, what do we tell Poppy?”
“The truth?”
“She’ll be furious—especially at you. You were supposed to *watch* me.” He smirked. “Admit it, you planned this.”
“Typical! Blame the woman,” she huffed.
When Poppy returned, Oliver greeted her with flowers. Her kiss was icy. The car ride was stiff, conversations hollow.
At home, she slapped him hard.
“I set you up. Wanted to test if you were loyal. Guess what? You failed.”
Oliver was stunned. “So, what am I, then?”
“Just another cheating bloke. I deserve better.”
He was furious. No man claimed sainthood, but this was low.
“Why the charade? Did she ever want to marry me?”
Three years on, Oliver’s still single—jaded, dating but never committing. Poppy’s unmarried too. Neither trusts the other. Some tests backfire spectacularly.
