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In short, my best friend is drunk.
“I think you should find someone that will make you forget your own name.”
I snort and grab a tater tot to throw at her. “I’m not so sad I need a one-night stand, Nee-nee.”
Niamh’s face twists up. “Don’t call me that.”
I giggle and reach for my pint glass, having gone for a cheap pilsner. “Why not, Nee-nee? Oh, Nee-nee!”
Nee-Nee is the nickname a boyfriend gave Niamh during their very short-lived relationship. It was one of the reasons she broke it off so quickly, and I love to tease her with it.
She points a well-manicured nail at me, her face set in a serious expression even if her lips are twitching as she tries not to laugh. “Seriously. If you keep it up, I’m going to find the ugliest man in here and tell him you’ve been staring at him all night but you’re too nervous to approach.”
I gasp dramatically, pressing my hand flat below my throat. Adopting the most Southern belle accent I can manage, I say, “Well, I never.”
We look at each other for a long moment before breaking down into snickers. The entire exchange would have earned us disapproving sniffs at the reception I’d left, surrounded by people who are so rich they seem to have lost touch with reality.
“So is your dad still talking about setting you up with Miles?” She scrunches her nose as she says my father’s right-hand man’s name.
A server saves me from answering right away, setting a fresh beer in front of me and a new drink for Niamh.
“We didn’t order these?” I look up at the young man dressed in all black in confusion.
“They’re from the gentleman in the booth. He said to tell you that your performance tonight was–” the young man hesitated, the tops of his ears going pink with embarrassment – “bewitching and exhilarating.”
“Oh,” is all I manage to produce as I stare at the drinks before lifting my bewildered gaze to Niamh. “Thanks.”
He leaves with a quick nod, and I look past Niamh towards the booths. Instinctively, my eyes go to the same booth where the man I’d made eye contact earlier with had sat. I jolt when he’s still there, watching me with a wry grin as he raises his glass in a clear toast. My face burns, and Niamh whips around in her chair to see who I’m looking at. I force a pleasant smile on my face even while the greasy burger and tater tots threaten to come back up. This wasn’t supposed to happen. No one from that part of my life is supposed to be in this part of my life. This is where I can be more than Oberon’s perfect little daughter, where I can be myself and not worry about what I say or how I act or what I eat or—
“Well, fuck me,” Niamh lets out in a whoosh as she turns back to me, looking like the cat that got the cream -and- the canary. “You sure you don’t want to reconsider a one-night stand? I know I sure as hell would be racing over there, taking my clothes off, if a man looking like that bought me a drink.”
I narrow my eyes and dip my head towards her fresh drink. “He did buy you a drink.”
She waves my comment away with a roll of her eyes. “Please. He’s being nice. He sent a message complimenting you on your cello performance tonight. Clearly, he’s only interested in you.”
I shake my head, and eye the beer. “I don’t like it.” I keep my voice low, thankful that the band is done for the evening. “I don’t even recognize him.”
It’s the only reason I’m not bolting to Simon and saying I’m ready to leave. At the same time, it almost makes it worse. If I recognized him, at least I would know if he is likely to gossip about how I left the performance reception to come drink at a blue-collar pub. Then again, so did he.
Slowly, carefully, I look back over at him. He’s looking at his phone in one hand, the other hand wrapped loosely around a tumbler. He’s wearing a crisp white button-down shirt, but the top two buttons are undone and he’s slouching against the wooden back of the booth. His hair is ruffled, and while his clothes scream money, his entire posture is relaxed.
Niamh is right. He’s one of the most beautiful men I’ve ever seen. Even slouching behind a table, I can tell he’s tall. If I had to describe him, I’d say he looks like a Scandinavian prince with his elegant high cheekbones and his stern jawline. His pale blond hair is nearly white but rather than making him look odd or aged, it gives him the look of an ancient creature like an elven king. It’s long on top and shorn close on the sides. Earlier, it may have been slickly styled back in controlled waves, but now it’s tousled as if it couldn’t wait to shake the confines of high society too. His lips are thin, but not unattractively, especially when one side of his mouth tilts up into a smirk at whatever is on his phone. Letting my gaze drop, I appreciate his strong shoulders and how the white button-down turns into something more seductive under the warm lighting of the pub. My mouth dries and stomach flips again when I get to his forearms.
To borrow Niamh’s favorite phrase, fuck me. I’ve always been an arms girl and this man’s forearms are weapons of mass seduction. And his hands–his long fingers now tapping a rhythm on the tabletop–his hands are the things of dark fantasies.
“That man is built like a grandfather clock.” Niamh’s lips wrap around the straw in her fresh drink, her eyes twinkling, as I blink at her. So, she caught me ogling.
I clear my throat, reaching for the beer. At least he is considerate enough to order us another round of what we already are drinking instead of ordering something he assumes we’ll like. “What?”
She perches her chin on one hand, leaning heavily on her elbow over the table, while stirring her drink idly with the straw with the other.
“You know–built to bang on every hour.”
I sputter at her words, spitting and choking on the swallow of beer I’d been taking. A few people seated around us turn to look as I glower at my cackling friend and try to clear my lungs of beer. Great. This is the last thing I need. First, he runs in my social circles and knows I’m at this pub, and now I’m making a spectacle of myself like I’ve never had a beer before. God, why doesn’t the ground just open up and swallow me.
Niamh doesn’t help, snickering into her drink before taking another long sip. I grope for the paper napkins, patting at my mouth and then the table, and when mine are sodden, she takes pity on me and hands me a couple more from the top of the stack closest to her.
“Thanks,” I mutter, not at all gracious. “Now if I even do talk to him, I’m going to smell like beer.”
