Anthony Bridgerton Modern AU Imagines || Anthony Bridgerton

Are We Friends?

House parties. Sometimes they suck, and sometimes, well, they are a revelation.

You are never happier than when your oldest and best friend Daphne finds Simon. But attending their house-warming party is, well, intimidating. You've known the Bridgertons your whole life, your parents' farm backing onto a corner of their giant country estate, but it appears Simon is from another level of wealth even than her. The place they have bought together is frankly ridiculous—the penthouse of a fancy all-glass building overlooking the Thames. Everything is tasteful, chic, modern and eye-wateringly expensive. It makes your cute garden flat in Ealing look, well, pokey as fuck, to be honest. As you self-consciously wander around stealing delicious canapes, you feel out of place; your perfectly presentable high-street-store heels probably shouldn't even be allowed to walk on such pristine marble.

You round a corner to a quiet nook, into what appears to be a home office when you see him staring out the window across the lights of London at night. Daph's oldest brother, head of the family, and CEO of Bridgerton Investments, Anthony. Yours has always been an antagonistic dynamic. He carries himself with the ease and arrogance of a rich man of the upper echelons of London society. So much of his demeanour and standing is almost an affront to your hardworking, make-your-own-way-in-the-world mentality. Fuck if he isn't handsome, though.

"Y/n," he greets with a rich tone, "it's been too long. Still bringing the world to rights?"

He remembers you're a journalist.

"Anthony," you respond in kind, "still making the rich richer?"

He barks a laugh at your riposte and takes a swig of something expensive looking.

"Come now, have a drink with me; let's both give the world a rest for the night," he suggests, pouring you something from a side cabinet.

You shrug and move to take the glass he proffers, "I can do that, old friend."

"Less of the old," he chides, giving you a sideways glance as you pull up in front of the same view.

"I've known you my whole life Anthony," you volley, "you can't lie to me about just how close to forty you are, not the way you do to all those Mayfair girls."

"Ouch," he feigns a chest injury, "don't forget, I remember when you were born, you can't pretend to be twenty-five anymore either y/n."

"It's rude to ask a lady her age; it's even ruder to remind her," you shoot back, taking a deep draw of the liquor. Damn, this stuff is good.

It's like no time has passed since you last did this. This is always your dynamic - antagonistic friendly fire until he finds a younger, less challenging, prettier woman to take home. Not that you've ever thought it would go further, but he always seems so flirty.

He turns his whole body towards you, leaning a shoulder casually on the window. "No boyfriend?" his tone smug.

"Left him handcuffed to my bed," you jest, draining your glass.

"Lucky fuck," he breaks into a suggestive smile.

You give him a pointed look and waggle the empty glass at him. He raises an eyebrow, then takes and refills it. He crowds a little closer on his return, his fingers lingering on yours as he hands you the drink.

"Seriously though..."

"Too busy," you shrug, deciding on honesty, "no one worthy." You take another swig, chasing the louche feeling you get after a couple of drinks when the world doesn't seem so bad.

"That last part, I can believe," his voice pitched a little lower.

It's your turn to throw him a sideways glance. "How many drinks have you had?" you ask warily.