“I’m not wound up, and I’m not adorable.”
She pokes my side. “Totally adorable.”
Laughing, I blurt out, “That tickles.”
“You’re ticklish?” This seems to delight her to the ends of the earth.
“It’s my curse.”
She darts her fingers out again, prodding my sides. I squirm away, trying not to laugh. “That’s too cute.”
“Not cute,” I mutter. “Not cute at all.”
She takes another swallow, then sets down the glass, her nose crinkling. “This beer is tickling me, but I do love a little beer tickle.”
Damn, she’s cute with her nose crinkling and her talk of tickling and her calling me adorable. And none of this, none of it whatsoever, ought to be appealing. But it is, so I reroute the conversation to where it started. Me. Us. Not that guy or his beer. “So, you listen to me? When I’m on Ryder’s show?”
“Maybe I do a little.”
“Or perhaps a lot?”
She licks her lips, smiling. “I like hearing what you have to say. You have interesting observations. On life, on men, on relationships. On business. It’s kind of fascinating.”
A smile tugs at my lips, coming from deep inside. “Thank you. That means a lot.”
“I read your blog too.” It doesn’t come out like a confession, more like she’s pleased to share this news.
“You really do?”
“And I really enjoy it.”
And I’m lit up, beaming with pride. This is even better than flirting. The fact that she likes reading my columns and listening to my advice warms me up. Hell, maybe it’s similar to how I enjoy listening when she tells stories of her love of mixology and how she names cocktails. “I’m stoked to hear that.”
“You always have something to say. And I like your opinions. They fascinate me. What made you this way? Why did you want to become the”—she stops to sketch air quotes—“‘Modern Gentleman of New York’?”
I sigh, wishing I had a lighter answer for her. But I don’t. “Let’s just say I’ve seen people behave in ways that aren’t exactly the best. So I try to offer suggestions on how we can be better.”
“What sort of things? Is it related to your dad? I know you’re not close with him.”
The mere mention of him sends a jolt of tension down my spine. “That’s true, and also a complete understatement.”
“Did something else happen? Beyond the obvious—him leaving your mom?”
I take another drink, finishing the glass, then bite off the bitter truth. “After he left her and ran away with the other woman, his own mum was sick. She lived here in the States, since he was born here.”
She nods. “Yes, he’s why you have dual citizenship.”
“One good thing I got from him, I reckon. The ability to live on either side of the ocean, no questions asked. In any case, my nan was quite ill, yet he couldn’t be bothered to come over and look after her. I came instead, cared for her, stayed with her till the end.” I take time with each word. Those are days I don’t want to revisit but want to give their proper weight.
“That’s terrible he wouldn’t take care of his own mom,” Truly says softly, placing her hand over mine. I stare at her hand for a second, and it feels good. Like it belongs there. “Do you ever speak to him?”
“No. I don’t want to. Don’t care to. There’s really no point. I have nothing to say to the man.”
“Did you want to return to London? After she passed? Or did your ex turn you completely off going home?”
“Good question. I did want to return at the time, but when Claire took off with the barber, it made me rethink everything.”
“Like what?”
“Where I wanted to live, what I wanted to do. I mean, for life. Not just cobbling together a little bit of this, a little bit of that. It was my second time in the States, since I’d been here for college. So I had to decide if I wanted to go home and chase gigs in London at The Guardian and whatnot, or stay here. When I landed some assignments at a New York-based website, the decision seemed made for me.”
“Any regrets?”
I flash back on the last six years here, the times I’ve had, the friends I’ve made, and the work I’ve done. “Not a one.”
“To no regrets.” She raises her glass with a smile, and I clink mine against hers.
“Enough about my soap-operatic family. Let’s talk about pubs. Have you figured out if this place is the model for a perfect pub or not?”
“I think it’s pretty close, but I can’t shake the sense that there’s something slightly off.” She whips her gaze around the place. She stands, paces like an archaeologist, studying all the nooks and crannies at Fox and Frog’s Finest. She heads to the back room, with the pool table, table football, and trivia machine. “I think something’s missing from here.”
I flash her a smile. “You’re getting warmer.”
She spins the poles on the table football then lets it go. It clatters as it circles and stops. “Okay, guinea pig, what is it?”
I smile at her nickname. “You were heading in the right direction. It’s missing . . .” I mime tossing a small arrow at the wall.
“Oh my God. There are no darts. No dartboard.”
