3 - Bar Rescue
Waverly already had it in her head that this so-called date wasn't going anywhere. Still, she wasn't going to show up to the pub looking like a slob. She threw on a pair of ripped jeans, a Bohemian green top, and slipped her feet into a pair of open-toed chunky sandals. After tying her hair up in a loose ponytail, Waverly grabbed her purse and clattered to the bottom of the stairs.
Her grandparents were in their small living room, watching the news. "Don't stay out too late," Pop-Pop called out in his strong Scottish burr, casually turning the pages of his newspaper. A cup of tea sat on a tray table next to him.
Waverly chuckled, one hand on the door. The scene was so quintessentially British. "Oh, I doubt I'll be late. I'll probably be early."
Nana tisked and looked up from her knitting. "Wavy, dear, give the poor man a chance."
Pop-Pop harrumphed and shook the newspaper. Nana shot him a glare. "What?" Pop-Pop countered, raising bushy white eyebrows. "You set her up with a twenty-two-year-old boy, Anita."
"That's not the point, Donald ..."
Shaking her head, Waverly grabbed her keys from an Edwardian porcelain bowl next to the door, let herself out, and set off down the street. Although her grandparents had a car and had given her permission to use it whenever she wanted, most people didn't drive around Chepstow-on-the-Sea. Everything was within walking distance, including the local pub. She nodded to Mrs Porter as the old woman was pulling wash off the line, and said "Hello" to the Chestertons as they walked their dog, Ned.
Coming from a large Massachusetts city, the quaint atmosphere still took some getting used to. Waverly had visited her grandparents before when they lived in Brighton, but the village scene was completely different. No one was in a hurry, people were friendly, and nearly all the older women knew of your business. It was practically Hallmark material.
Walking to the end of Harbor Lane, Waverly took a sharp right onto Belfast Court, then a quick turn on Lakefront Street where The Spotted Eel Pub sat in all of its eighteenth-century glory. A hand-painted sign not touched since the pub's inception in 1794, idly swung back and forth in the breeze that blew off the sea.
People gradually filed in from all corners of the village, some coming from work in Brighton, others retirees following old routines. Waverly smiled and thanked an old pensioner when he held the door open for her and ducked inside. She went straight for the bar and asked the bartender, Keshav Bhave, the son of one of her grandparents' friends, if Aidan Byrne had arrived.
Keshav raised an eyebrow. "Aidan?" he repeated, confused. "Why're you waiting for him?"
Waverly rolled her eyes. "Nana set us up."
"Ah." Keshav chuckled deeply, wiping glasses. "My sympathies. Go and take that table over there. I'll send Millie over soon."
"Thanks." Waverly turned toward the small table in the middle of the room and sat down, setting her purse on the floor. Folding her hands on the ancient, scarred surface, she looked around the pub. She'd been in here once, right after she landed. Pop-Pop brought her in to grab takeout before heading to the house.
The walls and floor were covered in a dark, almost black wood. In one corner was a billiards table, and right next to it were two dart boards; all three were already in use. The bar, crafted from the same material, sat up against the back wall. A long brass rail ran its length, polished but showing considerable age. An old mirror hung above the bar; on either side were two shelves loaded with all sorts of liquor bottles.
Six men perched on stools, four on one side, and two on the other. The four on the left were older men; the two on the right were younger and dressed completely opposite from the others' work attire: slacks, button-down shirts, and sports jackets. Maybe they were Americans like Waverly, she ruminated, tapping her nails on the table.
More people filed in, taking up the tables in the front. Those that followed later moved to the back of the pub, down a dark hall with a single bare light hanging from the ceiling.
Okay—where was Aidan?
Not that she cared. If she got stood up, it was fine and dandy.
Millie the waitress showed up and took Waverly's drink order: a tequila sunrise—because, why not?
"Do you want to order now or wait?" Millie asked when she returned with Waverly's drink.
Waverly opened her mouth to order, but before she could say anything, a thin boy wove his way around the tables and plunked down across from her. "You're Waverly, right?"
Both Waverly and Millie were startled by his sudden appearance. "Yes," she replied.
Aidan turned to Millie, ordered a craft beer, then scraped his chair closer to the table. The waitress shook her head slightly and returned to the bar. "Cute little cocktail," he said, pointing at Waverly's tequila sunrise. "I didn't know they served American drinks here."
"I'm pretty sure tequila sunrises are common over here, too," Waverly corrected, taking a sip. Aidan looked and sounded like one of the British boys from the movie Love, Actually who was convinced American girls would fall for him solely based on his accent. That boded so well.
Aidan laughed, a loud, boisterous sound that Waverly couldn't believe was really coming out of him. "Going hard already?" he asked, waggling his eyebrows.
"Going slow," she corrected, watching as the other patrons looked at them over their shoulders. "So, were you held up or something? I've been here since five."
Aidan's large blue eyes shifted into corners of the pub. "I didn't think you'd be here right at five. Aren't girls always late?"
Still not an apology, Waverly noted. Whatever. She took another sip of her drink. Better be careful, she told herself, or Keshav's going to have to drag me home.
"Not in my experience," she replied.
"Oh."
Millie returned with Aidan's craft beer. He immediately took a large drink and set it on the table with enough force for the liquid to slosh in the glass. God, Waverly groaned to herself, the kid was a sitcom character incarnate.
"So," Millie said, pad at the ready. "Are you ready to order?"
Waverly knew her order ages ago. "Chicken Caesar salad, please."
"Crispy or grilled?"
"Crispy, please."
Milled nodded and turned to Aidan. The boy tilted his head to the side, studying Waverly curiously. "Salad? Really?"
Both Waverly and Millie turned to stare at him; it was hard to tell who was more aghast: Waverly or the waitress. "Yes," Waverly said slowly as if explaining something to a child. "A salad. Why do you ask?" More to the point, why do you care?
Aidan scoffed. "It's just ... so American. You're always counting calories and whatnot. Have a real British meal." He turned his menu and began pointing at random items. "Like these."
"I like salad and I especially like chicken Caesar salad." Waverly frowned.
"Okay, no need to jump on me like that." Aidan shrugged and ordered the steak and potatoes, with extra fixings.
Waverly glanced at the menu before Millie took it away—one of the most expensive items the pub offered. Hm.
"So," Aidan began after another deep drink of his beer, "you're thirty?"
And you're five? Biting her tongue, Waverly nodded. She was trying to be polite for Nana's sake, but dear God, this kid was making it so hard.
"Huh. You don't look it."
Was that a compliment? "Thanks."
"Yeah, when Grammy told me how old you were, I was picturing someone with grey hair and wrinkles."
Waverly couldn't help herself. She burst out laughing. "You thought I was a crone?" she spluttered, covering her mouth with a bar napkin.
The innocent stoner look on Aidan's face turned hard. "Are you laughing at me?"
The change was so sudden, Waverly was taken aback. Wiping the corners of her eyes with the napkin, she set it down. "No, it was just so ... absurd." Be careful, she told herself. This could go south really fast. Thankfully, she had a bottle of pepper spray in her purse, bought by Pop-Pop and kept with her grandparents while they were living in Brighton.
Aidan's face screwed up like a petulant child. "Well, I'm glad you're pretty," he finally said.
"That's important, huh?" Waverly asked, playing with the cutlery. She was pretty good with knives, but only around plants. Couldn't be that hard to use one on a person if necessary, right?
"Of course. No one wants to date an ugly girl."
"Mm-hm," Waverly replied, nodding absently. Psychotic as well as shallow. "So, what do you do for a living?" she asked, attempting to draw the conversation away from appearances.
Aidan shrugged. "Nothing right now. Still trying to find myself." He drained his beer and waved at the bar for another.
Shallow, psychotic, and lazy. Waverly took another sip of her cocktail. "That's nice. Is there something you want to do?"
"Dunno. Whatever makes me the most money. What about you? You must have a good job to afford drinks like that." He pointed at the tequila sunrise.
"No, I was recently laid off."
The kid nearly choked on his second beer. "Oh—yeah?"
Waverly nodded. "I worked for a large greenhouse. It closed unexpectedly."
"Well ... I'm sure you've got money saved up."
Waverly eyed him over the top of her glass. "Yeah." It was starting to sound to her like little Aidan wasn't intending on paying.
Mollie swooped in with their orders. Waverly thanked her, but Aidan was too intent on decimating his meal to acknowledge the girl.
"Here," he said, taking part of his steak and setting it on Waverly's plate.
Her eyes widened. "No, thank you." Using an extra fork, she returned it to his plate.
Aidan was instant. "C'mon, you're too skinny." He put it back on her side.
That was it. "I am not—"
Keshav appeared at their table. "Waverly, your grandmother's on the phone."
Waverly stopped dead mid-sentence. "My grandmother ...?" Reaching down, she grabbed her purse and searched for her cell phone. No record of a call.
"Yeah," Keshav insisted, indicating the bar.
Grabbing her purse, Waverly shot up from her chair and followed Keshav to the bar. He walked around the other side and handed her the receiver of an old rotary phone. "Face me," Keshav whispered.
Waverly turned so that Aidan couldn't see her face. "Thanks," she muttered.
Keshav shook his head. "Don't thank me. This gentleman over here asked me to do it." He pointed at one of the two Americans seated at the bar.
"Oh! Thank you," Waverly told the man as he turned on his bar stool. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and aristocratic-looking—and honestly, rather handsome, with dark blue eyes and short, brown hair.
The man shrugged. "I didn't like what I was hearing."
Waverly blinked. Okay, not American, but British—and definitely from the upper class by his accent.
"I didn't hear a thing," Keshav explained, somewhat perplexed, "but he definitely did."
"Well, again, thank you."
Keshav leaned in. "Keep acting like you're talking. We're having the kitchen get you another salad to go."
"I'll pay for both," Waverly insisted.
"They already took care of it," Keshav said, nodding at the two men. The first man's companion lifted his glass and smiled.
"Uh ..." Waverly spluttered. "That's—that's really generous, but you didn't have to."
"It's nothing," the aristocrat replied, giving her a nod before turning back to his friend.
"O-kay," she said.
"What's going on?" Aidan asked, popping up from behind.
Shit. "I've got to go home. My grandparents need me."
Aidan frowned. "They know you're on a date right?"
"Here," Keshav said, sliding a box toward Waverly.
"Wait—" Aidan reached out and grabbed Waverly by the wrist, causing her to drop the receiver. She drew in a sharp breath, ready to knee the guy in the balls when the handsome aristocrat clamped his own hand on Aidan's.
"Gentlemen do not lay hands on ladies," he said softly, almost dangerously.
Aidan grimaced and despite the general noise level, Waverly swore she could hear the bones in his wrist crunch. With a yelp, Aidan released Waverly and turned away, whimpering, cradling his hand.
"Go home," the man said, nodding at Waverly's takeout box.
She grabbed the box and hurried out of the pub.
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