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Parker stands in front of the entrance to a pub. He looks perfect, as always, in a dark navy suit and a white shirt with cufflinks.
“Which direction did you come from?”
“Oxford Circus.”
“Bond Street station is closer.”
“I wanted the longer route, to take in all this... Britishness. Puts me in a great mood.”
“I can see that. Your smile takes up your entire face.” He pointed at his face. “Look, your enthusiasm makes me smile too.”
“Aww, is my enthusiasm rubbing off on your stick-in-the-mud British ass?”
“I believe it is.”
“So, this is where we’re getting coffee?”
“Yes. It’s a pub, but their coffee is great. Better than that overpriced stuff they sell at Starbucks or Costa.”
Parker walks to the door and then pushes it open. "After you."
The smell of coffee and beer fills my nostrils once I’m inside. The place has an old-world feel with wooden chairs and tables, and the counter seems to be placed on old beer barrels. Several other beer barrels decorate the walls, with the words beer or ale on it.
"What do you want?" Parker asks.
"Hmm...now that I’m here, I think it’s too late for coffee. I’d go with a beer, though I don’t really like the bitter taste.”
“Go with a brown ale then. It’s not typical for London, but they’ve got a few good ones. It’s not that bitter. Fewer hops.”
“That sounds good.”
“Go sit at a table, and—”
“No, no. I want to order.”
“I want to order.”
I want to be as British as possible and order my own ale.
The man behind the beer drafts looks at me as soon as I approach the counter. He talks first, and my smile freezes a bit, because from his long sentence, I only understand the word lass. Shit, the guy’s Irish, and the accent kills me. Sexy as hell, but I don’t know what he’s saying. Sounded like a question, though, so I just answer, “Yes.”
The guy cocks an eyebrow. Next to me, Parker tries to disguise his laughter as coughing. I elbow him, and he clears his throat.
“Excuse my American friend. She has a little problem with accents.” To me, he says, “He just asked what you’d like to drink.”
I won’t let this setback keep me from feeling British.
Straightening my shoulders, I say, “Brown ale, please.” Then, as an afterthought, I add, “A pint. A pint of brown ale.”
There. Doesn’t get more British than that. I’m feeling quite good about myself by the time Parker and I go to a table with our pints. At the far end of the room, there are couches. I sit on one, and Parker sits on the stool on the other side.
“Mmmm, this is really good. Maybe it’ll replace tequila as my favorite drink.”
"Ah, it’s good, but I don't know if it can match Don Julio or Señor Rio," he says and I immediately recognize the brand names.
"Jose Cuervo," I say. "That's my favorite guy."
Though I don't remember Jose Cuervo ever giving me shattering orgasms, so that puts Parker at the top of the list. He unbuttons his coat, putting it on the back of a chair. I allow myself a minute to indulge in the godly sight in front of me. The shirt he's wearing has a slim cut, accentuating his toned body. I imagine what it would be like to open the buttons of his shirt. I'd do it one by one, enjoying every freshly revealed inch of his skin.
