Page 8 of Tattered Edges

I wondered what Victoria was like, and how my first day as the owner of a bookstore would go.

I thought about the family of four I’d seen in that framed photo earlier, my nerves twisting my stomach at the prospect of meeting those who remained the following morning.

Though, as I watched the handsome barkeeper concoct one cocktail after another, it felt more relaxing to get lost in his movements rather than my worry over the next day.

I was only halfway through my first drink, and I’d been sitting at the bar for hardly more than fifteen minutes, but that was all I needed to understand why the Parlour was full of patrons even on a Sunday night. Cocktails weren’t merely a specialty at this place, they were a craft. Each drink was made with care and garnished with intention. Admiring the redhead focus while he worked was like seeing an artist in his element. More than once, he caught me staring—but I was bold enough, or perhaps tired enough, that I didn’t shy away from his glance.

I didn’t consider myselfloosein the sexual connotation of the word. Instead, I preferred to think of myself as a self-aware woman unafraid to go after what appealed to me. I knew what my heart and my body wanted. Sometimes they shared the same desire, and other times they didn’t.

I’d been taught that when the two didn’t agree, only my brain could be trusted.

I’d learned from experience the quest for fleeting pleasure was far more reliable than that of love.

Once, in my early twenties, I’d known something close to love with a man. It had been exhilarating and all consuming—but it was also fragile and temperamental. Admittedly, it had been worth the heartache that came when life got the better of us and our relationship ended—but it didn’t feel realistically replicable. Neither did the real thing seem wholly attainable. Not for me, anyway.

In my experience, most attempts at finding love resulted in boredom. Before a man became that person I didn’t want to live without, he became the person I couldn’t stand. My attempts at dating were all well intentioned, with the memory of what it felt like to truly connect with someone. But sometimes, one night and one night only was better.

Not that it was impossible, but it was less likely that I’d find out a man was intellectually shallow or emotionally unavailable or incurably selfish in one night. One night of pleasure came with no expectations, which meant no disappointment or boredom or heartbreak. It was reckless, daring, and a little wild—and every once in a while, I liked to let loose that side of me.

Granted, if I was completely honest, sometimes one night came with regret. But, over the years, I’d learned moderation was key. Not to mention,pleasuredidn’t always have to meansex.

So, I wasn’tlooseor easy—I was merely confident.

Or, sometimes, drunk enough to be outrageously brave.

That night, my desire for a distraction coupled with that broody scowl on such a handsome face was enough to fill my imagination with the possibilities found in one night.

“So, California, what’ll it be? Would you like another?”

I smiled at the balding man as he reappeared in front of me while I chewed my last olive. When I was finished, I extended my hand across the bar. “I’m Sawyer. What’s your name?” I asked, hoping to identify him in my mind as someone other thanthe bald one.

“Name’s Oscar,” he replied with a lopsided grin, accepting my hand.

“Nice to meet you, Oscar. As for that drink, I’d love another.”

“Coming right up.” He took away my glass then got to work preparing my second. “Have you been enjoying your trip to London so far?” he asked conversationally.

“Well, I’ve only been here a day, but it’s been a good one.”

“Oh, is that right? That means you’ve got plenty yet to explore. I take it you’ll make a stop at most of the tourist attractions while you’re here.”

“I plan to, yes.”

While I wasn’t exactly a tourist, what I said was true. I had every intention of seeing the sights. The fact that I was also there to meet my long-lost family and run the neighboring bookstore was too complicated a scenario to get into with a stranger after only a single drink.

“Any insider advice on places I must see?”

“It really just depends on what you’re into. I, for one, think the Tower of London is particularly unique. Not because of the crown jewels, but because of the history of the place. I’ve lived in the city for the whole of my adult life, and I still think it’s pretty fascinating that a structure so old still stands surrounded by modernity.”

“I do love old, classic things. I’ll bump that to the top of my list.”

He shook the gin and olive brine of my drink, cooling it before he poured it into a fresh, chilled glass.

“What about restaurants? Any recommendations? I’ll eat just about anything.”

He speared a toothpick through three olives, dropped them in my martini, then slid the finished drink toward me.

Propping his forearms against the bar, he tilted his head and insisted, “Food. Now you’re talking my language.”

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