Page 3 of Floored

After my first sip, I glanced around the pub again, wishing that even one other person would've been sitting at the bar with me.

Alone.

My first two weeks here had been a whirlwind, yes, but I'd still spent a lot of my time alone. Which was ... weird for me. The busyness and exhaustion of adjusting to the time zone change had kept that loneliness from swamping me.

But sitting alone at the bar, I felt that same visceral pain in my heart, missing ... well, everything. The rest of my family. My best friend, Finn. Since I'd already talked to Claire, I started to pull my phone out to see who else I could talk to when I heard his voice behind me.

"Don't tell me my brother's actually taken the night off, Carl."

The bartender nodded, giving a quick smile to whoever that deep, glorious, accented voice belonged to. "I'd reckon he never expected you to stop in."

Mr. Accent made an oof sound, full of amusement, and I smiled into my Stella.

"Need anything to drink?"

"I shouldn't," he answered dryly, "but after this week, I think I'll take one."

"Got a new IPA, if you want to give it a taste."

"Sounds bloody perfect," he murmured. "Though anything with alcohol does right about now."

What was it about the accent?

After taking the pint glass from Carl, the nice bartender, Mr. Accent made a noise that was quite delectable.

"Lewis coming back?"

"Not tonight."

Mr. Accent sighed heavily. "Is he home? Suppose I could pop 'round there while I'm in town."

Carl shook his head. "Out to the farm. Had to help your parents with something."

"No wonder I didn't know," he answered.

The sip of my Stella was slow, and I swear, I wasn't trying to eavesdrop. I couldn’t help the fact they were right in front of me.

Mr. Accent sat back on his stool, spreading his large hands out over the bar. "Well, it's quiet enough. I'll stay for a bit. Can you turn on the match for me?" he asked Carl.

Internally, I smiled, feeling a lot less bored and a lot less alone.

Flirt with a cute British boy. Isn't that what my sister had told me? My very smart sister.

As Carl flipped on the TV, I kept my eyes on my beer, careful not to turn and gawk. Because he sounded hot—really, really, grade A, level ten hot—and I didn't want to visibly pout if he turned out not to be what I envisioned.

Leaving a seat open between us, he slid his tall, broad frame onto a stool and folded his large hands together in front of him on the bar. Ink crawled up his forearms, as did ropey muscles and strong veins.

Excellent signs, all around.

Have you ever tried to check out a man without him noticing? It takes skill, people.

His attention never once wavered from the soccer game on the screen—the emerald green grass and brightly colored jerseys of the players passing the ball back and forth before the start of the game.

Match.

Whatever.

I snorted into my beer.

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