Page 89 of One Bride for Three Single Dads

As we get the parcels into the back of the truck, I see her squinting at the other end of the small group of buildings.

“What’s that, over there?” she asks.

I wince, probably visibly.

Her eyebrows go up. “Something you want to tell me?”

“Oh, it’s just the beer,” I explain hurriedly. “They drink it warm. I guess that’s a thing?”

She wrinkles her nose in disgust. “Really? Well, when in Rome!”

“Oh, really? Well, okay…”

She pivots to start walking toward the public house, then pauses. “Too early? I don’t even know what time it is.”

“No, it’s not too early,” I reassure her, forcing myself to not give a damn. “Let’s just give it a try.”

Our boot heels crunch on the gravel walkway. For a moment, I wonder if the door will be locked, but when I yank it open, the completely familiar pungent smells remind me of the first time I saw it.

Amber opens her eyes wide. “Whoa....” she murmurs quietly.

Tentatively I walk up to the bartender, concerned about the rules. He has a new dishtowel draped over his shoulder and walks over, pursing his lips in judgment.

“Two pints of, um, what’s light?”

He raises his eyebrows. “Light, miss?”

“Yeah, you know… Like light-colored? Light flavor?”

He smirks, amused by my American-style incompetence. “Aye, you’ll be wanting a lager, then. Here you are.”

Gratefully I accept the two pint glasses and turn around with them, gesturing to Amber that we should sit at a table, away from the bar. She seems confused but follows me.

“You don’t want to sit at the bar?” she asks in a low voice.

I glance over my shoulder and see a few younger fellows at the bar, including one who I think has been at the job site. He spots me and gives a knowing smirk.

“Actually we are not allowed.” I shake my head as I set the glasses down on the table.

“Not allowed?” she repeats sarcastically. “Says who?”

“Apparently women are not allowed to sit at the bar,” I shrug. “Kind of cute, no?”

“Um, no?” she scoffs. “What is this, 1940?”

I laugh uneasily. “Yeah. Right.”

The beer is much lighter than the one we had a couple of months ago. Thankfully, it doesn’t taste too bad. I can drink it like this, I guess.

I’m still happy to see her nose wrinkle when she takes a sip.

“Whoa, okay,” she says to herself. “Warm beer. How about that.”

I don’t want to keep looking over, but I feel like the guys at the other side of the bar are looking at me. Are they? Or are they just looking at me because I am looking at them?

I don’t know. I should probably keep my eyes down.

“Hey, are you with me?” Amber says, leaning forward.

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