Page 3 of The Pairing

“Guinness is back!”

When I stand, the manager is watching, his face ruddy and bemused. He pulls a half-pint from the new keg and passes it to me.

“You work in a pub back home?” he asks.

I take a sip. “Something like that.”

“Well,” he says, “you’re welcome to finish the shift. Match’s almost over, but Liverpool’s on at three.”

“At—at three?” My stomach drops. “Is it already—?”

Over a tattered leather booth by the door, a clock shaped like a Scottish terrier declares sixteen minutes to three.

Sixteen minutes until my tour bus leaves for Paris. Sixteen minutes until I lose my last shot at this trip, and a mile of unknown, untested London streets between this pub and the meeting point.

I whip the towel off my shoulder and do the unthinkable: chug my Guinness.

“I’m—eugh.” I suppress a burp that tastes like pure Irish vengeance. “I’m supposed to be at Russell Square in fifteen minutes.”

The manager and bartender exchange a grim look.

“You’d better get your skates on, then,” the manager says.

I hand him my empty glass and scoop up my pack.

“Gentlemen.” I salute. “It’s been an honor.”

And I take off running.

Someone yanks me back onto the curb just before a black cab clips me.

“Fuck!” I gasp, my life flashing before my eyes. Mostly swimming pools and cocktail shakers and casual sex. Not bad. Not impressive, but not bad. I look up at my savior, a tower of flannel and blond hair. “Forgot which way to look. I promise I’m about to leave the country and none of you will ever see me again.”

The man tilts his head, like a curious boulder.

“Do I look English to you?” he says in an accent that is certainly not English. It’s not Scottish or Irish either, though, so at least I probably haven’t insulted him. Finnish? Norwegian?

“No, you don’t.”

The light changes, and we keep walking in the same direction. This isn’t a meet-cute. Is this a meet-cute? I’m not into beards. I hope it’s not a meet-cute.

“You’re on the food and wine tour too?” the maybe-Norwegian guesses. I take in the pack on his broad back. It’s a big cross-country pack like mine, though mine looks twice as big on me. I may be tall, but I’m not genetically coded to push warships offbeaches into the Nordic surf.

“Yeah, I am! Oh my God, I’m so glad I’m not the last one.”

“Yes,” the guy says. “I slept on a hillside last night. Did not think it would take so long to hike back.”

“To London?”

“Yes.”

“You—okay.” I have several questions, but no time. “I’m Theo.”

He grins. “Stig.”

It’s 3:04 when we reach Russell Square, where an older woman with a peppery, no-nonsense haircut is loading the final suitcase into the luggage compartment of what must be our bus.

“Are you needing help with the bags, Orla?” a rich voice calls in a thick Italian accent. A handsome bronze face appears in the doorway of the bus.

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