“What can I get you, love?” The burly man behind the counter interrupts my people watching.
“Oh, I’ll . . .” I hesitate, but only a second. “Whatever you have on tap.”
“You sure?” He regards me with a refrained sense of humor. “We brew our beers dark and bitter here.”
He’s teasing because I’m American. That I can take. “Oh, I’m not a light beer drinker.” Or at least, I wasn’t.
He grins and pours me a pint, setting it on the bartop. “Want me to start you a tab?”
“No.” At least I have the good sense to shake my head and pull out a few bills to settle up.
“Let me know if you need anything else,” he says, then makes his way to another waiting customer.
For the next hour, I fade into the background, enjoying the anonymity of being a stranger in a new town. No one to judge me. No one to know my past. Even though I want to, I don’t drink the beer. Not a single sip or taste, almost as if I’m proving a point to myself. I’m in control. I’m able to sit here with no witnesses around and abstain. Of course, I get that it’s ridiculous. That it’s a dangerous game.
I expect the bartender to give me shit about it. But each time he glances over, taking in the full and now very warm glass, he lifts his brow in question and leaves me in peace at my slight head shake in the negative.
After the game on the television ends, the bar clears out and I realize I should probably head back to my room. Only I can’t stand the thought of being alone. At least in this pub I’m surrounded by people. There are conversations to overhear. A busy street outside to watch.
If I go back to the room, I’ll only think of him. I miss Chase in a way that can’t be healthy. An ocean apart and everything I see or do reminds me of him and the time we spent together. The quiet only wavers my unsteady resolve.
He’s called and texted and left voice messages, but I delete them because if I don’t I’ll be tempted to call him. To tell him everything. About my father. About my heart. And if he asks me to get on a plane, I don’t know how I’ll refuse.
“Hey.”
“Oh, hi.”
“I would ask if I could buy you a pint, but you don’t seem to be much of a beer drinker.”
“How can you tell?”
“That thing’s been sitting in front of you for at least an hour. Going on two.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah, I’ve been trying to work up the nerve to come over here for just as long.”
My body flushes under the compliment. I’m not gonna lie, I’m a little enchanted by the accent. And his eyes. The man is handsome and he probably knows it.
“I’m Simon.”
“Alicia.”
“A good Irish name.”
“Is it? I guess so, though I’m American, and my dad—” I swallow back the thick emotion that comes from thinking about him. “He’s from Spain.”
“Well, you are beautiful and I’m properly charmed. Can I get you something else to drink?”
“No, thank you. I should probably head back to my hotel.”
“Leaving so soon? Damn it. I should have got the nerve to come over here sooner.”
“Believe me, I’m not good company.”
“Let me guess,” he says, staring into my eyes. “It’s a man.” Before I can answer. “Or is it family troubles?”
“Would you believe both?” I sigh.
“Oh, that’s rough. Lay it on me. I promise I’m a great listener.”
“You don’t want to hear my sad story.”
“What if I do?” There’s a sincerity in his offer that catches me off-guard. It’s unnerving really and knocks down a little of the guard I thought I had firmly erected around my heart.
“You’re going to regret this,” I tease.
“Try me.”
So I do. I unload all of my shit on a beautiful, perfect stranger. To his credit, he doesn’t run or act put off in the least. Instead, he takes my warm beer and sips it down, listening intently to every word I share. He interjects with questions but not so much it’s annoying or distracting. The bartender calls for the last orders just as I fill in Simon to the present day. “So that’s why I’m not drinking and sitting alone in a pub in the middle of London on a . . . shit, what day of the week is it?”
“Sunday.” He grins, finishing off the last of my beer and setting it down on the counter. “You know what you need?”
“What’s that?”
“A distraction.”
“I think that’s why I’m here.”
“No, I mean a good distraction. An enjoyable one. You deserve to be happy.”
I swallow hard, his words hitting deeply.
“At least for a few hours.” He winks.
“Uh.” My cheeks burn as his innuendo hits. “I’m not sure I’m ready for that.”
“Not a relationship.” He rolls his eyes and shakes off the idea. “One night. Two adults. Consensual fun.”
I stare at him in a new light, considering his offer no matter how bad it might be. He’s handsome. He’s charming. He’s British. “It wouldn’t mean anything?”
“You worried I’m gonna catch feelings, love? Nah, I have my own heartache. Besides, I think we could both use the fun.”
It’s a bad idea. But it’s better than getting shitface drunk. It’s better than crying in an empty room. It’s better than pretty much all my alternatives. Besides, I could use fun. A distraction. There’s nothing wrong with a casual one-night fling. In fact, I’m almost certain it’s a requirement when relocating to a new country. Tomorrow, I’ll throw myself into my studies and there won’t be time for thinking or pleasure or missing Chase.
I’m doing it. Or rather, I’m doing Simon. “Your place or mine?” I hop off my barstool and pull on my coat.
“Oh,
