Chapter 16

16

She waits for me outside the pub in Tribeca she picked.

Dressed in dark jeans that hug her legs and a clingy top that slopes off one shoulder, she’s the woman in black. She hardly ever wears anything colorful, except her lipstick. It’s a wine red and shiny, like there’s a layer of gloss over it.

Somehow it’s fitting that she’s the color of night, because there’s a toughness to Truly. An edge. She’s no-nonsense, all business, and naturally, I want to take all those black clothes off her.

But I remind myself I need to maintain balance and exist peacefully in this state of wanting but not having. This is a normal feeling for me to have around her, and I’ve learned to live with it.

She waves, smiles, then when I reach her, she throws her arms around me. I’m taken aback, nearly knocked over by the unexpectedness of her embrace. But I’m not nimble for nothing. I seize the opportunity and sniff her hair. Fresh, clean, so very her—and do I detect the faintest scent of coffee beans? I do, and hell, now coffee reminds me of sex. “I’ll take this, and gladly. But I’m not sure what the returning hero greeting is for.”

She grasps me tighter, her arms looping around me, and yes, that’s quite nice too. “Thank you for spreading the gospel of no more manspreading.” She breaks the embrace and clasps my shoulder. “Manspreading is the bane of my existence, and you’re a superhero for doing your part to eliminate the virus that it is.”

“That’s what I’m here for. To make the world a little more civilized, one bloke at a time.”

“I see it all night long at the bar. Men have no idea how much it turns off women. I swear, I see groups of women walk away from packs of manspreaders.”

“ Packs. Seems apropos for men with such wild and unruly behavior.”

“It’s almost as bad as mansplaining. That’s a touch worse, since it’s an insult to intelligence. Down with mansplainers, I say!”

“You’re on fire tonight.”

“I might have had a cup of coffee a few minutes ago.”

“So if you’re normally at a ten when it comes to energy, vim and vigor, you’re at about one hundred now?”

“Something like that. Also, coffee keeps me strong.”

“News flash—you’re already strong.”

She shoots me a look, one I can’t quite read, but it seems to fall squarely on the side of I-know-what-you-look-like-naked. “I need to be strong.”

“Okay, then.”

She gestures to the door. “Ready for pub lesson number one?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be.”

We head inside and grab two stools at the bar, surveying the decor: leather chairs, round tables, high-backed booths, and the darkest of dark wood everywhere.

I nod appreciatively. “Looks pretty solid.” My gaze drifts to the bar itself. Beer tankards hang above it. “Very authentic.”

“Filing that tidbit away,” she says. “I picked this one because it was on my list as having promise. It has that local pub feel, right?”

“Yes, so you can check that off the list.” I peer toward the back room, cataloging the pool table, and the table football one too, then I make a note to stroll back there later for a proper survey.

“Good. Because I did a lot of research online. I don’t want you to think I’m simply going to expect you to do all the work.”

“Like when I fucked you from behind?”

Her jaw drops, and for the first time in my life, I think I might get slapped. I probably deserve it.

I definitely deserve it.

She doesn’t speak at first, just stares. “Did you really just say that?”

“Did I? Seems that might have been the little devil who sometimes takes over my mouth.”

“Gentleman, my ass.”

I shrug a little sheepishly, hoping I haven’t gone too far. “Even the best gentlemen have devils in them.”

“You and your devil are terrible.”

“Are you sure that’s what you meant? I feel like incredible was the first line in the review you gave me after.”

She shakes her head, huffing. “You’re the worst.”

“Or am I really the best?”

She leans in close. “Just a little reminder, since you seem to have forgotten some details. I did all the work when I rode you. I seem to remember you saying, Yeah, ride me like that, Truly. Let me watch you fuck me hard. ”

Hallelujah! It worked. “You do realize it’s still hot as fuck when you talk dirty, even if you’re imitating me talking dirty to you? And for the record, that was my favorite view.” My brain has the courtesy to slide that image front and center. “Picturing it again right now.”

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.

She’s just a friend, and she’s allowed to be interested in hops.

I remind myself that emotions like envy are unbecoming to my entire worldview.

“Let me pour that for you.” Marcus spins around and crosses the bar to the taps.

I shoot her a curious stare. “Want me to leave you alone to chat with Daniel Craig-Hemsworth?”

“Aww, you’re jealous.”

“No. Please. Not at all.”

“I’m just interested in how the beer is made. You don’t have to be so green.”

“Not jealous. Not in the least.”

She holds up her thumb and forefinger. “Maybe a little? I mean, he does have a nice accent, you have to admit. Not that yours isn’t ever so lovely too,” she says, slipping a posh accent onto the last few words.

I jerk back. “I don’t sound like that.”

“You don’t think you sound like Hugh Bonneville?” she asks, continuing in that high-class tone.

“Like a rich, stuffy uncle? Are you kidding me?”

“He’s delightful to listen to. Like Jim Dale. Don’t you like the Harry Potter voice? Astonishing things were happening , and all that.”

“One, Jim Dale is a national treasure, so naturally, I think he’s the cat’s whiskers. Two, I do not sound like Jim Dale or Hugh Bonneville.”

“Maybe Hugh Grant, then?”

“Daniel Craig,” I say, standing my ground.

With utter amusement in her eyes, she sets her hand on my arm. “You’re completely jealous that you’re not the only Brit in the room, aren’t you?”

“Please. As if.”

“Jealous. Calling it.”

“Not an ounce of it in me.”

“Liar.”

“Woman, you are relentless.”

She shimmies her shoulders in a little victory dance. “I am indeed.”

A few seconds later, Marcus turns around, sets down the pints, and issues a declaration. “I promise you this pale ale will coat your palate, and you’ll love every second of it going down your throat .” He blinks, realization hitting him clearly. “Er, sorry. That sounded . . .well, sometimes I get carried away.”

Truly regards the glass with a smile. “We all get carried away sometimes, Marcus.”

I groan. The innuendo. Dear God, the innuendo. I can’t take it anymore.

Another customer walks in, and Marcus gestures to the man in a cap who’s surveying the beer board. Yes, go away, Marcus. Go away, this instant.

“Now, I’ll be right over there. If you need anything at all, just shout. I’ll be here for you.” He’s Frasier again, and he takes off, possibly to begin a history lesson with a new customer.

Truly lifts her glass. “I like him.”

I flinch and try to blink back my shock. “You like him?”

That wasn’t what I wanted her to say.