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“Because you didn't get your arse out of bed in time to enrol for earlier ones?” I suggest.
“Meh.” Ben drains his glass and thrusts it at me. “Your round.”
“That drink didn't last long.”
“I'm thirsty.” Ben flutters his eyelashes and I shake my head at him then walk to the bar.
The other friend I'm meeting, Michelle, passes me on the way as she heads to our table. “Get me one too!”
“Sure.”
Three beers ordered and paid for, I turn around.
“Cariad!”
I halt.
There is only one person I have ever heard use that word.
I grip the beers and squint across the pub. A group of people are spread between the bar and one of the large tables in the corner—half a dozen people in various states of inebriation.
Standing at the edge of the table, arm outstretched to indicate me—Bryn.
“Look! She's here! It's my favourite almost girlfriend!”
Bryn Hughes, shouting at me in the middle of a crowded pub skyrockets my pulse. Partly I'm embarrassed. I hate being centre of attention and partly… it's Bryn. For a moment, every second of the passionate kiss last week floods my mind, and my body flares to life.
Is he drunk?
The muscles of the broad chest he once squashed me against are visible where his shirt is unbuttoned at the top, his ink contrasting brightly against the dark material.
Does he get sexier every time I see him or is that just me?
Get a grip.
Condensation drips down the side of the three glasses I'm holding in a triangle between my hands, my hold slipping with the water and the shock.
Too late.
A glass hits the floor, and I swear under my breath as broken glass and beer cover my feet. A rock star yelling my name across a busy pub isn't enough to draw attention to myself; I guess I'll start smashing the glassware as well.
Wishing the ground would open and swallow me, I crouch down to pick up the broken shards.
Bryn approaches to help. “Still dropping things?”
“Your fault,” I mutter.
He crouches too. “You'll cut yourself.”
“I'm an expert,” I reply, gingerly piling the larger chunks into my palm.
“Right.” Bryn joins in and we remove most of the glass and place it on a nearby empty table.
Five minutes ago, I arrived here for a post-lecture, quiet drink with Ben. Now the peaceful nature of my day is shattered along with the glass on the floor. “What are you doing in a divey student pub?” I ask.
“With these guys.” He flourishes his hands at the group in the corner. I glance over. They look like students too, a combination of young guys and girls drinking and talking loudly. Why would Bryn hang out with students?
I stand, holding the broken pieces carefully. “Still, not your kind of place.”
