Chapter Two
I was home long enough to put away all my groceries and freshen up a bit. I hadn’t even begun to unpack, but a quick rummage through one of my suitcases was enough for me to find a sweater/jean combo worthy of my first night out. The tight fit of the denim in contrast with the baggy fit of my cream, slouchy pullover was comfortable and cute in equal measure. All in all, it was good enough under the circumstances. I didn’t have the energy to worry about makeup, but I tried to revive my hair a little, running a brush through it a few times before deciding I’d done all I could do.
Wrapped in my heavy jacket, I journeyed down the stairs, locked up, and made the short trip around the corner to the front of The King’s Steed. Upon my entrance, I spotted the dark, mahogany stairs that led up to the second level in front of me, and a warm inviting space full of patrons to my right. There was a sign mounted on the banister of the staircase with one arrow pointing up to the Parlour and one arrow pointing right to Henry’s Tavern. The Tavern seemed lively and fun, so I headed toward a vacant seat at the bar.
It was after seven o’clock on Sunday night, but I wasn’t sure anyone in the pub knew that. The patrons who filled the place didn’t appear to have the Sunday blues in the slightest. As I made my way between tables, the first thing I noticed about the space was there weren’t any televisions. Instead, tucked into a corner by the front windows, a couple of men were playing chess over a pint. A few tables over there was a group with a deck of cards. Not everyone was playing games, but no one was there sitting alone, and I liked that.
The decor was classic in such a way that led me to believe the bones of the room might have been original to the old establishment and incredibly well maintained or refurbished. It was very masculine, with heavy polished wood and leather cushioned chairs, but all of it warm and welcoming.
As I approached the bar, there was a woman who looked around my age, with a mop of curly brown locks piled on top of her head, behind the counter. She smiled when she spotted me and called, “Be right with you,” in some version of an accent that sounded quite pronounced, as she filled a glass with beer. As soon as the beverage was delivered, she headed my way and asked, “Welcome in. What can I get for ya?”
“Could I get a dirty gin martini, please?”
“Ahh. First-timer are you?” she asked with knowing glint in her eye.
I grinned, not even trying to deny it. “What gave me away?”
“I can make you a martini, easy enough—but if you’d been here before, you wouldn’t be asking me for one. Not so long as the Parlour is open. You’d be upstairs. Cocktails are their specialty.”
“Oh. Really? Is it fancy or anything? Am I dressed alright?”
“You look fine, babes. Head on up. You won’t regret it.”
I nodded, sliding off my barstool. “Thanks.”
I shrugged my way out of my jacket as I journeyed upstairs, hooking the garment over my arm as I ascended. While the Tavern was as inviting as it sounded, the Parlour was a totally different vibe.
It wasn’t fancy or upscale, but neither was it as casual as downstairs; rather, it was very cool and classy without being stuffy. It appeared to be a bit more modern, but still charming with its dark, polished wood bar, brick faced walls, and leather seating. Rather than an assortment of tables and chairs, there were couches and wing-backed armchairs everywhere, giving it a true parlor feel.
While the vibe was certainly different, the crowd was no less dense. I wondered if I’d be able to find a spot at the bar, and I lucked out when someone left just as I approached. When I occupied the vacated seat, my eyes were immediately drawn to the tall, attractive figure of one of the men behind the counter. I could only make out his profile, but it was enough to prevent me from looking away.
Turned out, as my first day in London drew to a close, a dirty gin martini really was a great idea.
He was dressed in a black turtleneck, the long sleeves pulled up over his forearms. Unlike the bartender downstairs, he and his companion donned aprons, adding to the charm of the place, and to the man himself. He filled both the shirt and the apron well. He was neither thin nor bulky with muscle, but pleasantly somewhere in the middle. I guessed he was no shorter than six-one, maybe six-two with the way he coiffed his hair.
It was cut shorter on the sides but longer on the top and styled to perfection. It was also ginger .
Redheads weren’t usually my cup of tea. But this one— this one was built different.
His chiseled, square jaw was covered in a low-trimmed beard just as red as the hair on his head. While I could still only see part of his face, the concentration which tugged at his brow as he put the finishing touches on a beautifully crafted cocktail was captivating.
“Hi, welcome in. Did you need a menu?”
I was distracted from my appreciation of the handsome barkeeper when his companion blocked my view, offering me a leather-bound menu. Admittedly, he was not so fine, but he had a friendly face and a kind demeanor I couldn’t ignore. Unlike the redhead, he was a balding man—though, he didn’t look to be much older than me.
“No, thank you. I’d actually like a dirty gin martini. I was told cocktails were your specialty.”
He smiled, setting aside the menu. “First time to The King’s Steed, eh?”
I laughed softly and teased, “Is it the accent that makes it so obvious?”
Rather than answer me, he asked, “America, I presume?”
“That’s right.”
He reached for a bottle of gin and extracted a chilled martini glass from a fridge underneath the counter. “Which part?”
“Uh, California,” I replied, opting for the easiest answer.
“Are you telling me you left the sunny shores of California to visit London in the coldest part of the year?”
“It’s not as crazy as it sounds,” I laughed. “I assure you I didn’t leave my beach house behind.”
“If you say so,” he commented, pouring a bit of olive juice into his shaker.
My eyes drifted back toward the redhead, who was handing over a couple of drinks to a server. She accepted them carefully before hurrying off with the order. He wiped his hands down his apron. Then, as if he felt my gaze aimed his way, he looked right at me.
If his profile was nice, his face dead-on was spectacular.
His freckled skin.
His thick eyebrows.
His dark-blue eyes.
His prominent nose.
His full lips.
The complete effect of his masculine facial structure was mesmerizing.
Yeah . This ginger was built different.
I smiled invitingly, wishing to express my willingness to engage.
He, on the other hand, did not smile.
His brow furrowed in a scowl that wasn’t altogether off-putting, then he dipped his chin in a sharp nod of acknowledgment before he went about his business.
I wasn’t sure what to make of our exchange, but I found myself amused by it all the same.
“Here you are,” announced the balding bartender as he set my drink in front of me. “Dirty gin martini.”
“Thank you,” I told him, immediately reaching for the toothpick laden with the olives I loved. I plucked one in my mouth then returned the two that remained back in the glass for later.
“Cheers.”
He, too, left to see to another order, leaving me alone with my drink and my thoughts.
Not that I was complaining. I had plenty to occupy my mind.
I tried to remember if I’d packed a set of sheets in my luggage, or if I might find a blanket tucked away somewhere in the flat. If not, I’d be forced to layer up in sweaters and sweatpants to keep warm that night.
I wondered what Victoria was like, and how my first day as the owner of a bookstore would go.
I thought about the family of four I’d seen in that framed photo earlier, my nerves twisting my stomach at the prospect of meeting those who remained the following morning.
Though, as I watched the handsome barkeeper concoct one cocktail after another, it felt more relaxing to get lost in his movements rather than my worry over the next day.
I was only halfway through my first drink, and I’d been sitting at the bar for hardly more than fifteen minutes, but that was all I needed to understand why the Parlour was full of patrons even on a Sunday night. Cocktails weren’t merely a specialty at this place, they were a craft. Each drink was made with care and garnished with intention. Admiring the redhead focus while he worked was like seeing an artist in his element. More than once, he caught me staring—but I was bold enough, or perhaps tired enough, that I didn’t shy away from his glance.
I didn’t consider myself loose in the sexual connotation of the word. Instead, I preferred to think of myself as a self-aware woman unafraid to go after what appealed to me. I knew what my heart and my body wanted. Sometimes they shared the same desire, and other times they didn’t.
I’d been taught that when the two didn’t agree, only my brain could be trusted.
I’d learned from experience the quest for fleeting pleasure was far more reliable than that of love.
Once, in my early twenties, I’d known something close to love with a man. It had been exhilarating and all consuming—but it was also fragile and temperamental. Admittedly, it had been worth the heartache that came when life got the better of us and our relationship ended—but it didn’t feel realistically replicable. Neither did the real thing seem wholly attainable. Not for me, anyway.
In my experience, most attempts at finding love resulted in boredom. Before a man became that person I didn’t want to live without, he became the person I couldn’t stand. My attempts at dating were all well intentioned, with the memory of what it felt like to truly connect with someone. But sometimes, one night and one night only was better.
Not that it was impossible, but it was less likely that I’d find out a man was intellectually shallow or emotionally unavailable or incurably selfish in one night. One night of pleasure came with no expectations, which meant no disappointment or boredom or heartbreak. It was reckless, daring, and a little wild—and every once in a while, I liked to let loose that side of me.
Granted, if I was completely honest, sometimes one night came with regret. But, over the years, I’d learned moderation was key. Not to mention, pleasure didn’t always have to mean sex .
So, I wasn’t loose or easy—I was merely confident.
Or, sometimes, drunk enough to be outrageously brave.
That night, my desire for a distraction coupled with that broody scowl on such a handsome face was enough to fill my imagination with the possibilities found in one night.
“So, California, what’ll it be? Would you like another?”
I smiled at the balding man as he reappeared in front of me while I chewed my last olive. When I was finished, I extended my hand across the bar. “I’m Sawyer. What’s your name?” I asked, hoping to identify him in my mind as someone other than the bald one .
“Name’s Oscar,” he replied with a lopsided grin, accepting my hand.
“Nice to meet you, Oscar. As for that drink, I’d love another.”
“Coming right up.” He took away my glass then got to work preparing my second. “Have you been enjoying your trip to London so far?” he asked conversationally.
“Well, I’ve only been here a day, but it’s been a good one.”
“Oh, is that right? That means you’ve got plenty yet to explore. I take it you’ll make a stop at most of the tourist attractions while you’re here.”
“I plan to, yes.”
While I wasn’t exactly a tourist, what I said was true. I had every intention of seeing the sights. The fact that I was also there to meet my long-lost family and run the neighboring bookstore was too complicated a scenario to get into with a stranger after only a single drink.
“Any insider advice on places I must see?”
“It really just depends on what you’re into. I, for one, think the Tower of London is particularly unique. Not because of the crown jewels, but because of the history of the place. I’ve lived in the city for the whole of my adult life, and I still think it’s pretty fascinating that a structure so old still stands surrounded by modernity.”
“I do love old, classic things. I’ll bump that to the top of my list.”
He shook the gin and olive brine of my drink, cooling it before he poured it into a fresh, chilled glass.
“What about restaurants? Any recommendations? I’ll eat just about anything.”
He speared a toothpick through three olives, dropped them in my martini, then slid the finished drink toward me.
Propping his forearms against the bar, he tilted his head and insisted, “Food. Now you’re talking my language.”
Oscar chatted with me for a few minutes, and I took out my phone and made note of the places he recommended I try. When he left to attend to another customer, I snapped a picture of my martini to send to Diane. It was nearly noon back home, so I anticipated a response before too long.
Wish you were here. I think you’d love this place. Verdict is still out, as it’s the first pub I’ve tried, but it’s definitely a contender for my favorite.
I sent the photo message then looked up, taken aback to find the redhead in the spot Oscar had vacated. Only, it was me who wore a frown when he slid my half-full martini to the side, replacing it with a fresh one.
“If you’re going to post on social media, a full serving is more appealing.”
His accent was different than Oscar’s. It was muddled. His words were pronounced, like he’d grown up in the royal palace; but his cadence was lyrical, as if an Irish village had been his playground.
“Oh, I—I wasn’t actually posting anything. I was sending a photo to a friend, is all.”
“Try it anyway. Oscar makes a decent martini, but not the way I do.”
I hesitated only long enough to convince myself this was the opportunity I’d been waiting for. I didn’t think his martini would really be better than Oscar’s. There was only so many ways you could make such a simple drink—but he was even more appealing up close, so I wasn’t going to tell him no .
I didn’t have the highest rate of accuracy when guessing someone’s age, but there was something about him that seemed older. His quiet, no-nonsense vibe felt too mature for a guy barely over thirty. I would have put him anywhere between thirty-eight and forty-three. This only served to make him more attractive.
If he was going to nudge at the door I’d cracked open for him earlier, all the better.
Like I always did, I reached for the olives first, sliding one into my mouth before returning the others to the glass. As I lifted the martini to my lips, I kept my eyes fixed on his blue ones. It wasn’t the first time we’d locked eyes that night, but this time felt decidedly more flirtatious, even though he still hadn’t even hinted at a smile.
As the gin slid into my mouth and over my tongue, I inadvertently dropped my gaze to look down into the glass. The taste took me by surprise. I couldn’t quite figure out how, but he’d been right. This martini was better. I took another sip, then met his eyes once more.
“This is really good.”
“You’re welcome,” he muttered, still with a straight face.
He grabbed what was left of my previous drink and began to turn away before I called, “Wait!”
He quirked an eyebrow at me in question, and I reached for the olives. With a smile and a shrug, I confessed, “They’re my favorite part.”
He studied me a moment, not unkindly, before he nodded his understanding then busied himself once more, leaving me wanting.
Either my intuition was right, or the gin was going to my head. Regardless, I felt fairly certain he was interested. He hadn’t said the words, and he wasn’t nearly as inviting as Oscar, but I couldn’t think of another reason why he’d go out of his way to make me an upgraded version of my drink of choice.
Twenty minutes later, well on my way to drunk, and definitely on the verge of delirium from lack of sleep, he returned to check on me. That’s when I decided I was low on patience and ready to cut to the chase.
“Another?” he asked.
I shook my head, propping myself against my forearms on the bar. “No, I don’t think so. But you look like you’d be a recklessly good time. Are you on the menu?”
It was a bold approach, I knew—but I didn’t have anything to lose.
When his scowl tugged at his brow, I thought for a moment I’d read the situation completely wrong. Then he rested his palms atop the counter, leaning toward me as he replied, “No offense, but I have no intention of being a tourist’s joy ride.”
This brought a grin to my face. Rather than his rejection, I heard a promise which compelled me to say, “Now you’ve gone and done it. I had this idea you’d be a good time, but now you’ve got me imagining all the different ways you could invoke joy. You shouldn’t tease a woman like that.”
It happened so fast, if I’d have blinked I would have missed it.
The teeniest, tiniest smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth, and I was beginning to understand this quiet, handsome man could say a lot without saying anything at all.
I liked that.
He was mysterious and slightly debonair.
It made me want him even more.
“I promise, I’m not a tourist looking to check an item off my London bingo card. I’ll admit, I’m halfway to drunk and I haven’t had a full night of sleep in the last thirty-six hours, but all of that just means I’m not trying to entrap you. One night. No strings. Just that joy ride I now can’t get out of my head.”
For a long moment, he said nothing at all, just stared at me in such a way I thought maybe, just maybe, he was as intrigued by me as I was by him. If anyone could clear my head for the night, ensuring a deep, recovery sleep, it was the redhead with the British-Irish accent and the carefully, deliberate touch.
Finally, he leaned a little closer and said, “Drinks are on the house. I hope you enjoy your trip.”
My drinks were on the house.
While I could have left well enough alone—rather than his rejection, I heard what he hadn’t said.
And he hadn’t said no. Not exactly.
Neither had he moved away from me.
I wasn’t loose or easy—I was merely confident.
Or, sometimes, drunk enough to be outrageously brave.
That night, it was the latter.
Intent on taking one last shot, I lifted myself out of my seat, closed what distance remained between us, and pressed my lips to his.
It was brazen.
It was reckless.
It was not unwelcome.
When he didn’t pull away, I parted my lips and pressed in closer. He tilted his head, as if to procure the perfect angle, then opened his mouth and snuck a taste. The feel of his warm tongue—slight though it was—was undeniably titillating.
Then, just as quickly as it had begun, it was over.
He severed our connection, pulling away only enough for me to make out the expression in his eyes. I couldn’t tell for sure, but he might have been tempted.
He was still close enough that I felt his breath against my lips when he muttered, “ Bingo .”
The giggle that bubbled out of me was on account of the gin, but I received his message loud and clear.
“Thanks for the drinks, Red,” I murmured.
I’d taken my shot. Now, it was time to go home.
I stepped down from my chair, slid into my jacket, offered him a wave, and made my way toward the stairs.
He hadn’t said no. Not exactly.
Maybe next time he’d say yes .