“Mind if I join you?”
I look up and he’s standing beside my seat, a drink in his hand that he uses to signal towards the empty seat beside me. And what was that? Did I detect an accent? I think I did, but I can’t be that lucky. I swallow my nerves and quickly run my eyes over him. Tall. Fit. Oxford shirt untucked, paired with a worn pair of jeans. Leather loafers on his feet and the hint of end-of-day scruff on his jaw. Thick, neatly cut, well-styled dark hair and expressive brown eyes watching me with interest.
“I hope the drink is to your satisfaction.” He dips his head towards my beverage. “I asked the bartender to refresh you, but if you wanted something different…” He trails off with a small frown at my glass.
Accent confirmed. I have just hit the holy grail of potential one-night stands.
“You’re British,” I say, fighting the grin from my face.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” he replies and sets his own drink on the bar top while resting on the stool beside me, his long legs bent slightly at the knees in order for his feet to rest on the floor. “Unless you have a problem with my country?” he inquires, brow raised and a small smile on his lips.
Do you know what’s great about British men?
I mean, I’ve never met one before this and they’re likely no different than American men, but the accent. It’s everything, right? You can say it’s a cliché or whatever, but come on. It’s panty-meltingly good. I know he’s speaking the same language but the words just sound so much better falling from his lips.
“I’m Jennings,” he says, extending a hand, and I almost laugh. Jennings? It’s obviously fake. This guy is too old to have a trendy millennial name like Jennings. Also, it sounds British for ‘I’m giving you a fake name.’ But fine, I’m game.
“Rose,” I tell him and slip my hand into his. His hand engulfs mine and he’s not quick to withdraw, instead running his thumb gently over the back of my hand. I like the feeling a lot, the texture and warmth of his skin creating an immediate spark of interest in touching a whole lot more of him.
“Rose,” he repeats, pausing and tilting his head a fraction as if he doesn’t believe me. He shouldn’t, it’s not my name.