Page 7 of Tattered Edges

I was distracted from my appreciation of the handsome barkeeper when his companion blocked my view, offering me a leather-bound menu. Admittedly, he was not so fine, but he had a friendly face and a kind demeanor I couldn’t ignore. Unlike the redhead, he was a balding man—though, he didn’t look to be much older than me.

“No, thank you. I’d actually like a dirty gin martini. I was told cocktails were your specialty.”

He smiled, setting aside the menu. “First time to The King’s Steed, eh?”

I laughed softly and teased, “Is it the accent that makes it so obvious?”

Rather than answer me, he asked, “America, I presume?”

“That’s right.”

He reached for a bottle of gin and extracted a chilled martini glass from a fridge underneath the counter. “Which part?”

“Uh, California,” I replied, opting for the easiest answer.

“Are you telling me you left the sunny shores of California to visit London in the coldest part of the year?”

“It’s not as crazy as it sounds,” I laughed. “I assure you I didn’t leave my beach house behind.”

“If you say so,” he commented, pouring a bit of olive juice into his shaker.

My eyes drifted back toward the redhead, who was handing over a couple of drinks to a server. She accepted them carefully before hurrying off with the order. He wiped his hands down his apron. Then, as if he felt my gaze aimed his way, he looked right at me.

If his profile was nice, his face dead-on was spectacular.

His freckled skin.

His thick eyebrows.

His dark-blue eyes.

His prominent nose.

His full lips.

The complete effect of his masculine facial structure was mesmerizing.

Yeah. This ginger was built different.

I smiled invitingly, wishing to express my willingness to engage.

He, on the other hand, didnotsmile.

His brow furrowed in a scowl that wasn’t altogether off-putting, then he dipped his chin in a sharp nod of acknowledgment before he went about his business.

I wasn’t sure what to make of our exchange, but I found myself amused by it all the same.

“Here you are,” announced the balding bartender as he set my drink in front of me. “Dirty gin martini.”

“Thank you,” I told him, immediately reaching for the toothpick laden with the olives I loved. I plucked one in my mouth then returned the two that remained back in the glass for later.

“Cheers.”

He, too, left to see to another order, leaving me alone with my drink and my thoughts.

Not that I was complaining. I had plenty to occupy my mind.

I tried to remember if I’d packed a set of sheets in my luggage, or if I might find a blanket tucked away somewhere in the flat. If not, I’d be forced to layer up in sweaters and sweatpants to keep warm that night.

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