He sets his phone beside his plate as something flashes in his eyes. “Oh, hello.”
My cheeks burn, but there’s nothing for it now. I have to talk to him. “Hi. Didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“You didn’t say anything,” he points out. “You should have.”
Maybe not, but my intentions did. They’re practically screaming at him. I’ve already decided this is the perfect specimen. I want to test my theory on him.
Total stranger: check.
Hot accent I can understand: check.
No wedding ring: triple check.
Steam pours out of the pie as I cut into it. I’m glad the first thing out of his mouth wasn’twhy are you staring at me? I’d better say something while I have his attention. “I have a feeling I’m going to eat my weight in pie crust while I’m in the UK. If there’s one thing you guys do well, it’s pie.”
He shoots me an amused look. “Just the one thing?”
Well, I’m curious about the kissing. But we’ll get to that later. “I had some good fudge in Bath once, too.”
He scoops a forkful of meat pie into his mouth and chews. “Fudge and pie. Sounds like you aren’t trying the right things.”
“What do you recommend?” I try to take a bite but pull back when it sears the edge of my tongue. Too soon. I douse my mouth with water.
“Shortbread.”
I lower my fork.
A smile plays over his lips after he takes another bite of his cooled dinner. “Whit, did you think I’d say haggis?”
“That or fish.” I pull a face. “Not interested in either.”
“Och well, you’ll have to leave the country then, won’t you?”
“Nice try.” I go for another bite, glad it doesn’t burn me this time. The flavors explode pleasantly in my mouth—meat, gravy, onions, buttery crust. Heaven. “No one caters to vegetarians as well as the UK does.”
He pauses, looking caught off-guard. His eyes flick down to the bite I’m scooping, full of beef and gravy. “It doesn’t look like you’re one, though.”
“No, but my best friend is, and she struggles to find things to order sometimes. So I’ve noticed it in my travels.” I take another bite. “Last Christmas” by Wham! comes on over the speakers, and I pause, looking up. There is no escaping that song. I let out a whoosh and fill my mouth with pie.
“Not a fan of that song?” William Wallace asks. “Or Christmas in general?”
“I love Christmas. I usually don’t have a problem with that song.”
“But?”
“Last Christmas was a little…” My nose wrinkles. Our psychology department had an unofficial holiday party at my friend Sam’s house last year. I had arrived with a guy I’d dated on and off throughout the first quarter of my doctorate, but he left with someone else. That’s when we went off for good. This stranger doesn’t need all those details, though. I settle for, “This song is a little too on the nose for me this year.”
“I see.” William Wallace swigs his drink and pushes away an empty plate.
Woah, how did he eat so quickly? He’ll be gone before I finish my pie. “Tell me about you,” I say quickly, stabbing another bite. “I’d love to hear about a real local.”
“Even one daft enough to love haggis and fish?”
“Even one of those.”
“And loves this song?” he presses.
My eyebrows shoot up. “You don’t.”
