Dad feigns shock. “Flirting with a handsome, quick-witted, sarcastic bartender. The goddamn nerve of the Yankees.”
“Can you believe it? Some nights I have to beat them off with a stick.”
He strokes his jaw. “It’s the family curse, son. We have no choice but to live with it. I’ve had to spend my entire life fending off the ladies.”
“Yeah, seems like Penny wants to work her magic on you. She was trying to get me to buy you a scone.”
“I knew I liked her for a good reason. But you’re not distracting me.” Dad wags his oat-covered spoon in my direction. “Will you see this absolutely frustrating American again?”
I shrug. “I don’t think so. It’s all for the best. Too much going on at work. I don’t have time for frustrating Americans. Especially ones who are too cocky for their own good.”
“All I’m saying is, don’t let all the opportunities pass you by. I’ve always admired your work ethic, but it’s okay to get out there a little sometimes, meet that special someone.”
I roll my eyes. I go out when I want to. I don’t go out when I don’t want to, and I’m perfectly content with that. “And it’s okay to skip the scone. We’re both full of sage advice today. Now, I should nip off, or I’ll be late.”
“Thanks for the breakfast. I think,” he says as he puts down his bowl of oats. I’ve got a feeling it’s going to end up either covered in brown sugar or tossed in the rubbish bin right after I leave.
“You’re welcome. I think.”
He waves me off with one last comment about “keeping my eyes open.”
The man’s stubborn, I’ll give him that.
Maybe, possibly, I take after him in that regard.
But better him than the other person responsible for half my genes.
I leave and make the quick walk to the Tube. During the ride, I turn over his advice, weighing the pros and cons of it. I love the man, but it’s a little ironic for him to be trying to encourage me to find a special someone, especially since he didn’t date for years until I finally convinced him to get on the apps recently. Part of it is probably an old habit for him, thinking he still needs to be looking out for me and only me. Ever since Mum took off for Australia after a whirlwind affair with a man from Sydney when I was thirteen—one that went tits up a few years later—it’s been Dad and me against the world. He did whatever it took to support us, whether it meant taking on extra freelance assignments or avoiding romantic entanglements, something he claims he didn’t do, but I know him—his focus was singular in those years, and I suppose it worked out as he’d hoped. He raised a good kid, and without him, I know the path off the rails would have been too easy.
More proof that sometimes you just need to stay the course and focus on what’s important.
Business.
Friendships.
Family.
But love?
Seems to me that following your heart is foolish and leads to stupid decisions like abandoning your family to go halfway around the world.
Mum’s on her fourth marriage now.
Every time, she says that guy is the one.
As if there’s a one.
That’s why I won’t be the one to lose in my game with Maeve. And that’s what I ought to be focusing on. Getting her in our game, since I suspect she was trying to trip me up last night.
It’s like she hears my thoughts because the second I’m off the Tube and back outside, my phone buzzes with a message.
Maeve: Sure you don’t need to pick up supplies for some chores later? You and that American seemed pretty chummy.
Dean: Further proof that you will be the one to lose this battle. If I can withstand that man, I can withstand anything.
Maeve: How can you be so sure that’s the last you’ve seen of him?
Dean: Because I’m all business today. Now, about the bar expo. What am I looking for?
Maeve: You’re all work and no play, Dean. What have I told you about that?
Dean: That it means I’ll win our game?
Maeve: You nearly lost last night. But no worries. I understand why. He’s quite foxy. Hard not to notice. Harder still to look away from. I’m curious though. Did you learn if his ink went all the way up to his shoulders? Down his back? To the V of his abs?
Dean: Has anyone ever told you that you’re evil? Pure evil. Also, completely wicked too.
Maeve: Only you, ever since uni. Also, I’m soooo going to win. You think you’re ice, but I know you.
Dean: Impervious is my middle name. Now, what’s on your wish list, O Wicked One?
Maeve: See if you can find us some cool specialty food and drink options. I’ll send you a checklist. Also, you should be on the lookout, too, for anything American. Foreign is an especially good sell. You know how HOT American goods are. Or should I say H-A-W-T?
Dean: I am a man on a mission tonight. Radar has been recalibrated to trip you up, witchy woman.
By the time I reach the expo at the edge of Bankside, the crowd’s buzzing around the different stalls. I check them out, swinging by a booth with CBD-infused alcohol, another with vegan bar food, but nothing entices me.
The next stall features an old-fashioned jukebox, fifties tunes warbling from the speakers.
I snap a picture of it and send it off to her, along with a new text.
Dean: I’m sure you would have loved this baby. Too bad you’ll have to buy me the pool table instead.
I’m still chuckling to myself when I look up from the phone and spot a familiar set of shoulders.
Maybe I’m seeing things at the end of the row.
Maybe he’s just the one I wish I were seeing.
The same one who invaded my thoughts so damn inconveniently after I went home last night.
But when he turns around, I’m certain it’s the frustrating American.
And he looks even better than he did last night.
5
Fitz
This boozy festival wouldn’t be my first choice to spend a Saturday afternoon in London. Checking out the Tower or kicking back on a riverboat cruise is more my speed for vacay.
But Emma insisted, saying getting the local feel would help her settle into the city, and this is local as hell, here in a neighborhood that feels very Old Blighty.
“So, after this, I think I’ll head over to that used bookstore we passed earlier and see if they have the books I need for my art history class,” she says as we pass a stall advertising bar art. “Plus, the vibe was so Notting Hill. Maybe I’ll meet my own Hugh Grant.”
“You don’t want your own Hugh Grant. He’s so old now.”
Emma laughs, ponytail bouncing as she walks ahead of me. “I meant a young, cute Hugh Grant. Obviously. And don’t act like those accents don’t charm the hell out of you.”