“Be careful on the train home, okay? Make sure to head back before it’s dark.”
I smiled. Claire was so
Claire, she couldn’t even help herself. “Okay, Mom.”
“Love you.”
“Love you back.”
She hung up first, and for a few minutes, I laid on the grass and stared up at the slowly darkening sky. When the breeze held enough of a chill, I stood and pulled my wadded-up jacket out of my crossbody purse.
I wandered for a while. Taking pictures. Looking up at buildings. Reading placards. I hopped on and off the Tube, allowing for spur-of-the-moment decisions in what I might discover. It helped take that edge off, the one I desperately didn’t want to feel again.
As I did, I tried to take Claire’s advice to heart. Be in the moment and not think about what I was missing. I did pretty well until the first fat raindrop hit me on my forehead.
The rain came out of nowhere, and like a rookie, I’d left my little umbrella back at my flat.
Even though I pulled the hood of my jacket up, it didn’t do much to protect me from the sudden downpour, so when I looked up and caught sight of a dark wooden sign for a pub off a side street, I smiled, thinking of what Claire said. I quickly jogged around a group of tourists on a sightseeing walk, hooked a right onto the quiet street, and ducked through the heavy wooden door.
It was quiet inside, decorated with dark wood, glass-covered sconces, and burgundy booths that had seen better days. It was still hours before the post-work rush would have a place like this packed to the brim with men wearing tailored suits in want of a pint.
God bless London, because really, British men knew how to wear suits. It did not take long to recognize how far superior they were to American men in that regard.
I slipped off my jacket and ran a hand through my hair. After a day of sightseeing, it was beyond tangled. The only other people in the pub were huddled in one of the corner booths, and for a split second, I wondered if the beer was poisonous or something, because honestly … it was really, really empty, considering what time of day it was.
An old man wiping down the dingy wood bar nodded to me as I slid up to a stool. “What can I get for ya?”
I glanced behind him at what was on tap. “I’ll have a Stella, please.”
He nodded, deftly pulling a glass under the correct tap. “Be wanting anything to eat, dear?”
I smiled. Would the accents and the casual endearments ever get old? “Just the beer for now.”
He set it in front of me. “Cheers.”
After my first sip, I glanced around the pub again, wishing that even one other person would’ve been sitting at the bar with me.
Alone.
My first two weeks here had been a whirlwind, yes, but I’d still spent a lot of my time alone. Which was … weird for me. The busyness and exhaustion of adjusting to the time zone change had kept that loneliness from swamping me.
But sitting alone at the bar, I felt that same visceral pain in my heart, missing … well, everything. The rest of my family. My best friend, Finn. Since I’d already talked to Claire, I started to pull my phone out to see who else I could talk to when I heard his voice behind me.
“Don’t tell me my brother’s actually taken the night off, Carl.”
The bartender nodded, giving a quick smile to whoever that deep, glorious, accented voice belonged to. “I’d reckon he never expected you to stop in.”
Mr. Accent made an oof sound, full of amusement, and I smiled into my Stella.
“Need anything to drink?”
“I shouldn’t,” he answered dryly, “but after this week, I think I’ll take one.”
“Got a new IPA, if you want to give it a taste.”
“Sounds bloody perfect,” he murmured. “Though anything with alcohol does right about now.”
What was it about the accent?
After taking the pint glass from Carl, the nice bartender, Mr. Accent made a noise that was quite delectable.
“Lewis coming back?”
“Not tonight.”
Mr. Accent sighed heavily. “Is he home? Suppose I could pop ’round there while I’m in town.”
Carl shook his head. “Out to the farm. Had to help your parents with something.”
“No wonder I didn’t know,” he answered.
The sip of my Stella was slow, and I swear, I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop. I couldn’t help the fact they were right in front of me.
Mr. Accent sat back on his stool, spreading his large hands out over the bar. “Well, it’s quiet enough. I’ll stay for a bit. Can you turn on the match for me?” he asked Carl.
Internally, I smiled, feeling a lot less bored and a lot less alone.
Flirt with a cute British boy. Isn’t that what my sister had told me? My very smart sister.
As Carl flipped on the TV, I kept my eyes on my beer, careful not to turn and gawk. Because he sounded hot—really, really, grade A, level ten hot—and I didn’t want to visibly pout if he turned out not to be what I envisioned.
Leaving a seat open between us, he slid his tall, broad frame onto a stool and folded his large hands together in front of him on the bar. Ink crawled up his forearms, as did ropey muscles and strong veins.
Excellent signs, all around.
Have you ever tried to check out a man without him noticing? It takes skill, people.
His attention never once wavered from the soccer game on the screen—the emerald green grass and brightly colored jerseys of the players passing the ball back and forth before the start of the game.
Match.
Whatever.
I snorted into my beer.
“Not a fan of football?” he asked me.
Straight, unfettered energy pulsed under my skin, and it took everything in me not to look too eager for interaction. But honestly, I was. After the icky feelings of the entire day, I probably would have been this excited if Carl, the old bartender, had made small talk.
Instead of turning fully to see if his face was as hot as his voice and hands and forearms, I kept my eyes forward, just as he seemed to do.
What had he asked me again? An exclamation from the announcer on the screen, something about offsides, pulled my attention back.
“Am I a fan of football?” I mused. His finger drummed lightly on the side of his glass. “Yes,” I said. “The real one.”
He whistled at the jab. I tried to hide my grin by taking another sip of my beer.
When he replied, his voice was dry, mild amusement hanging off every deliciously spoken syllable. “Hate to break it to you, love, but that sport you Americans call football is not the real one.”
New Book: Back Home to Marry Off Myself
Loredana’s father left the family for his mistress, leaving them to fend for themselves abroad. When life was at its toughest, her father showed up with “good news” after 8 years of absence: To marry off Loredana to a paralyzed son of the wealthy Mendelsohn family.