“People.” Rufus air-quotes.
“I didn’t realize this was a dancing-on-top-of-the-bar kind of place,” I tease Meg, as Rufus shakes his head. “You are aware that your cocktail has an actual shiso leaf in it.”
“I suppose most people stay off the bar until approximately midnight here,” Meg acknowledges, her face falling a little. “But I can’t stay up that late anymore!” Her voice cracks and I give her a hug.
“Well, your eyebrows are one hundred percent,” I say, admiring her threading job.
Rufus plants a martini glass full of something pink and salt-rimmed in my hand.
“And your overalls are straight fire, Ruf,” I say.
“Not as much as your hint of bosom,” he says, laughing wickedly and clinking his glass to mine.
“Have you been texting with my grandmother?”
“I’ll never tell!”
“All right,” Meg says, drawing the two of us into a corner from which we can see most of the bar. “Let’s get to work.”
I let her scan the room on my behalf. That’s what friends are for, and it gives me time to focus on my cocktail.
Meg lifts her chin in the direction of a guy down the bar. “He’s gorgeous.”
“He looks like Ryan,” Rufus says.
“Pass!” I shout into my drink.
“Okay, what about the brawny blondie coming this way, oooh,” Rufus says, nodding at an approaching man who is trying to get the bartender’s attention.
He is good-looking, the kind of good-looking that never comes without a chin cleft. Meg and Rufus make a choreographed retreat from the bar, leaving an open space for him to sidle up next to me.
He signals the bartender for another beer, then looks at me and smiles.
“Hi!” I shout over the noise of the bar, feeling rusty as fuck at flirting.
“What?” he shouts back, leaning in, hand on the small of my back.
I step away. His eyes are so blue that it sort of hurts to look at him. “I just said . . . never mind . . .”
He shouts something I can’t hear, and I realize how pointless this is. I’m not interested in this guy. Even on Shabbat. I start to back away, but he follows, fresh beer in hand.
“It’s quieter away from the bar,” he shouts, nodding toward a window. I glance at Meg whose wide eyes and frantic hand motions let me know that I’m not welcome back in their corner just yet.
And so, a moment later, I find myself pressed against a window, staring deep into this stranger’s chin cleft, and wondering what the hell to say.
“So what do you do?” he asks, after we’ve been through the thrilling topics of our names and whether we’ve been to this bar before.
(His is Phil, and the answer is yes.)
“I’m a book editor,” I shout.
“That’s AMAZING!” he shouts back with so much enthusiasm I wonder whether I’ve written Phil off too quickly. Then the other shoe drops. “I read a book last year!”
“Was it . . . good?” It’s the best I can do.
“So good.” He winks at me. “You wanna get out of here? My hotel is just around the corner. Minibar . . . balcony . . .”
I just can’t double mitzvah with this guy. “You know what, Phil? I’ve got an early meeting tomorrow. . . .”
“It’s Saturday.”
“Also, I just don’t see it happening—you . . . me. . . .”
Phil nods and doesn’t take it too hard. His eyes are already scanning the bar for another lady who’d love to hit that hotel balcony. I make my goodbyes and hurry back to my friends. But on the way, I catch eyes with a tall man nursing a Guinness at the bar.
He’s cute and clean-cut, wearing tailored pin-striped suit-pants with a white French-cuffed oxford shirt. His vibe is grown-up yet playful—both of which I like—especially when combined with the wry look in his eyes.
“Not a winner?” Pinstripes says in a British accent.
“In Phil’s defense,” I say, drawing closer, “he did read a book last year.”
Pinstripes laughs. I put my drink down on the bar and see Meg and Rufus chest bump in celebration out of the corner of my eye.
“Are those ampersand cuff links?” I ask, admiring the flash of gold at his wrists.
He nods. “The ampersand has a fascinating history. I wrote my PhD thesis on their use in Shakespearean paratext.” He pauses, stares at me.
“What?”
“It’s just that you’re still awake. Usually those words are verbal Ambien.”
“Just don’t slip your thesis topic in my drink.”
We both laugh, then both drink, and I’m thinking: handsome, brilliant, witty in a British way. Operation Get Lanie Laid has entered the theater of engagement.
“Have you met my fiancé?” a woman’s voice says behind me, and then I watch as arms slink around Pinstripes’ shoulders. One hand at the end of those arms bears a simple, gorgeous diamond ring. I wince as Pinstripes is swiveled into a conversation with a cluster of fashionable, attractive Brits. He meets my eyes before he commits and mouths the words good luck.
I turn away and down the rest of my cocktail, then make a beeline for Rufus, who’s got a second drink waiting for me. Or should I say, second drinks.
“Clearly, it’s time to move on to Kate Mosses,” he says.
I take the drinks from his hands and we all down our Kate Mosses. My eyes water. “I’ve got about one more teeth-puller in me before I turn into a pumpkin.”
“We could mosey down the street,” he says. “Go dancing?”
“Dancing, yes,” Meg says, bouncing on her heels, arms stiff at her sides. “Preferably Irish.”
“I like it here,” I say. “It’s just . . . would it be okay if we put Operation Get Lanie Laid to rest for the night? I’m more in a sip-my-drink-and-try-to-keep-Meg-off-the-bar kind of mood.”
“Say no more,” Meg says, and loops an arm around me. “We’ll just pretend we’re the only ones here—”
“Wait a minute,” I say. “Is that . . .”
I rise on my toes, because a dead ringer for Noah Ross has just walked into the bar. Which would be three times the man has stumbled into my life in a single week. Surely some sort of world record.
But then, when he turns, I see it isn’t him. Not by a long shot. Just some dark, curly-headed stranger in a pea coat. I’m surprised to feel disappointed.