She covers my eyes. “Stop. Just stop.”
“Nice try, but it’s here in my head with me.”
She drops her hand. “The worst.”
“Also, a gentleman always apologizes, so please allow me. I’m sorry for saying you didn’t do any of the work. Now that I think about it, I recall you were fantastic at rocking against me when I bent you over the bed.”
Her eyes bug out. “You won’t ever stop, will you?”
I gaze at the ceiling, considering. “Probably not.” I return my focus to her, lowering my voice. “Do you really want me to? To stop?”
She locks her pretty blue eyes with mine. “Do I? I suppose that’s the question, isn’t it?”
And she doesn’t technically answer it.
Perhaps that’s the answer. Don’t stop.
The bartender swings by, setting down coasters and looking far too much like Liam Hemsworth for my taste. He better not speak like him.
“Cheers! Welcome to Fox and Frog’s Finest, serving the most authentic pints this side of the pond.”
Great, really great. He’s Daniel Fucking Craig, with his now-I’m-from-London-and-all-the-ladies-throw-knickers-at-me accent. Why can’t he just sound like a stuffy, rich uncle from Downton Abbey?
“We are indeed here for the authenticity,” Truly remarks.
“You have come to the right place, then. I’m Marcus, and I’m here for you tonight.”
Fantastic. His personality is a combination of a tour conductor on a double-decker red bus and Frasier, with the whole “I’m listening” routine.
“Nice to meet you, Marcus. Great pub you have,” Truly says.
“I appreciate you saying that. I’m the manager. Newly promoted. Pretty excited for the new role.”
“As you should be. Congrats,” Truly says.
“Thank you very much. But enough about me. Can I interest you in a pint?”
“Pale ale for me, and a porter for my . . .” She casts her gaze at me, mischief in her eyes. “My friend.”
Friend. A reminder of who we are. This is our zone, no matter how many times I might call up scenes from that night.
But friends is what I want, I remind myself.
“Would you like to hear about the pale ale?” Daniel—I mean, Marcus—asks.
“I would,” Truly replies, sounding captivated. “Go on. I'm all ears.”
Marcus clears his throat and rolls up his shirtsleeves. Fantastic. He has arms like a Hemsworth too, and dresses like, well, like he listens to my advice on how a man should dress. “Let me tell you about the pale ale. Because you picked well. You are going to get the finest hops this side of the Hudson.”
Truly scoots closer, listening intently. “Tell me all about it.”
He chuckles, rubs his palms together. “You’ll find this East Coast IPA is sweeter and juicier than a West Coast IPA. Personally, I’d say the flaked oats provide just the right sweet touch.”
Truly nods excitedly, her lips curving into a grin, and a sharp pang of awareness hits me. She’s fascinated with flaked oats. She’s mesmerized by his fucking beer.
“I love a little hint of sweetness in an IPA,” she says.
Marcus Hemsworth beams from here to London, then all the way back. “You’ll adore it, then. There’s almost no bittering hops, and in addition to that, we layered in loads of aroma hops in the whirlpool. Who doesn’t love a whirlpool?”
“Whirlpools rock.”
“That they do.”
“And what kind of aroma hops were rocking out in the whirlpool?”
Fucking hell. Could she be any more excited about the beer? It’s a pint, for fuck’s sake. You drink it; it tastes good. End of story.
“The best kind. The brewer uses the Citra hop, which brings the most tantalizing orange, grapefruit, and lime flavors. It takes the beer to a whole new level. A heavenly level. Do you know what I mean?”
“There is nothing I want more in a beer than for it to be heavenly.”
“But then, that’s what good beer is. Like angels concocted it on high.”
Have I slipped into an alternate world? One where barmen look like matinee idols and talk like Daniel Craig and captivate my woman?
I mean, my friend.
