Page 6 of Tattered Edges

There was no turning back. I’d made up my mind weeks ago. Except, now, more than ever, I wanted what he’d given me with all my heart.

It took me a few minutes to calm myself. After I dried my face, I continued my exploration of the flat. On the fourth floor, accessible by a set of stairs across the short entryway beyond the front door, were two bedrooms, two bathrooms, and a laundry closet. Unlike the third floor, the upper-most level wasn’t furnished. It was obvious upgrades had been made in the bathrooms, but the bedrooms looked to hold a bit of their original charm. The walls were brick, and the hardwood floors—while polished and in good condition—were old, but I liked it.

I was definitely in need of a bed, a dresser, and a cozy area rug, but I’d worry about that later. I could crash on the couch for a couple of nights. A more imminent need was food. It was already early afternoon, and I hadn’t eaten since the breakfast they’d served on the plane. It was a bit chilly out, but it wasn’t raining, so I decided to go for a walk to see what I could find.

I headed up the street, hoping to catch a glimpse of St. Paul’s Cathedral while I was out, and stumbled upon a few food options. I wasn’t completely sold on the idea of my first meal in London consisting of hamburgers or pizza, so after admiring the outside of the gorgeous, seventeenth century iconic church, I wandered in search of something decidedly lessAmerican.

I settled for French cuisine, dining in at the restaurant before I continued my exploration of the city. I made it all the way to Piccadilly Circus, the brisk air and the excitement of being someplace new enough to combat my jet lag. When my fingers got too cold to ignore, I popped into the first store I could find that sold gloves and bought myself a pair, purchasing a knit hat to match. It wasn’t until the sun was starting to set that I decided it was probably best for me to head back toward home.

I stopped at Sainsbury's, the local grocery store I’d mapped close to the flat, and stocked up on a few essentials. It was when I turned down St. Andrew’s Hill, with the intent to peek into the store front of Tattered Edges, that I noticed the building on the corner—the one attached to mine. It was a pub.

The King’s Steed.

I smiled at the sight of it, remembering my conversation with Diane about finding a favorite pub to frequent. This one looked promising. I could hear the crowd of people inside over the sound of music as a couple hurried into the establishment and out of the cold.

As my first day in London drew to a close, a gin martini felt like agreatidea.

Iwashomelongenough to put away all my groceries and freshen up a bit. I hadn’t even begun to unpack, but a quick rummage through one of my suitcases was enough for me to find a sweater/jean combo worthy of my first night out. The tight fit of the denim in contrast with the baggy fit of my cream, slouchy pullover was comfortable and cute in equal measure. All in all, it was good enough under the circumstances. I didn’t have the energy to worry about makeup, but I tried to revive my hair a little, running a brush through it a few times before deciding I’d done all I could do.

Wrapped in my heavy jacket, I journeyed down the stairs, locked up, and made the short trip around the corner to the front of The King’s Steed. Upon my entrance, I spotted the dark, mahogany stairs that led up to the second level in front of me, and a warm inviting space full of patrons to my right. There was a sign mounted on the banister of the staircase with one arrow pointing up tothe Parlourand one arrow pointing right toHenry’s Tavern.The Tavern seemed lively and fun, so I headed toward a vacant seat at the bar.

It was after seven o’clock on Sunday night, but I wasn’t sure anyone in the pub knew that. The patrons who filled the place didn’t appear to have the Sunday blues in the slightest. As I made my way between tables, the first thing I noticed about the space was there weren’t any televisions. Instead, tucked into a corner by the front windows, a couple of men were playing chess over a pint. A few tables over there was a group with a deck of cards. Not everyone was playing games, but no one was there sitting alone, and I liked that.

The decor was classic in such a way that led me to believe the bones of the room might have been original to the old establishment and incredibly well maintained or refurbished. It was very masculine, with heavy polished wood and leather cushioned chairs, but all of it warm and welcoming.

As I approached the bar, there was a woman who looked around my age, with a mop of curly brown locks piled on top of her head, behind the counter. She smiled when she spotted me and called, “Be right with you,” in some version of an accent that sounded quite pronounced, as she filled a glass with beer. As soon as the beverage was delivered, she headed my way and asked, “Welcome in. What can I get for ya?”

“Could I get a dirty gin martini, please?”

“Ahh. First-timer are you?” she asked with knowing glint in her eye.

I grinned, not even trying to deny it. “What gave me away?”

“I can make you a martini, easy enough—but if you’d been here before, you wouldn’t be asking me for one. Not so long as the Parlour is open. You’d be upstairs. Cocktails are their specialty.”

“Oh. Really? Is it fancy or anything? Am I dressed alright?”

“You look fine, babes. Head on up. You won’t regret it.”

I nodded, sliding off my barstool. “Thanks.”

I shrugged my way out of my jacket as I journeyed upstairs, hooking the garment over my arm as I ascended. While the Tavern was as inviting as it sounded, the Parlour was a totally different vibe.

It wasn’t fancy or upscale, but neither was it as casual as downstairs; rather, it was very cool and classy without being stuffy. It appeared to be a bit more modern, but still charming with its dark, polished wood bar, brick faced walls, and leather seating. Rather than an assortment of tables and chairs, there were couches and wing-backed armchairs everywhere, giving it a true parlor feel.

While the vibe was certainly different, the crowd was no less dense. I wondered if I’d be able to find a spot at the bar, and I lucked out when someone left just as I approached. When I occupied the vacated seat, my eyes were immediately drawn to the tall, attractive figure of one of the men behind the counter. I could only make out his profile, but it was enough to prevent me from looking away.

Turned out, as my first day in London drew to a close, a dirty gin martini reallywasa great idea.

He was dressed in a black turtleneck, the long sleeves pulled up over his forearms. Unlike the bartender downstairs, he and his companion donned aprons, adding to the charm of the place, and to the man himself. He filled both the shirt and the apron well. He was neither thin nor bulky with muscle, but pleasantly somewhere in the middle. I guessed he was no shorter than six-one, maybe six-two with the way he coiffed his hair.

It was cut shorter on the sides but longer on the top and styled to perfection. It was alsoginger.

Redheads weren’t usually my cup of tea. Butthisone—thisone was built different.

His chiseled, square jaw was covered in a low-trimmed beard just as red as the hair on his head. While I could still only see part of his face, the concentration which tugged at his brow as he put the finishing touches on a beautifully crafted cocktail was captivating.

“Hi, welcome in. Did you need a menu?”

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