Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 76664 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76664 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
“Understandable,” I say, once I can breathe again. “Jamie Fraser is insanely hot.”
“You’re not too shabby yourself, Darling,” he murmurs, making my cheeks heat as he leans closer.
I lean in, too, my pulse fluttering wildly in my throat.
I’ve never kissed a man in a bar, either, but our lips are about to meet over our forgotten cards when a creaky voice behind me calls out, “Oi, young people! Come settle a bet.”
Olly and I startle apart, turning to face a man in a plaid vest standing beside the jukebox, flanked by two shorter gentlemen, both with magnificently thick gray moustaches. “You’ve obviously got decent taste in music, but can either of you do the Lambeth Walk?”
“Excuse me?” I start, but Olly’s already standing, offering me his hand.
“Dance from the 1930s. Bernard forces it upon the bar at least once a year,” he says with mock annoyance. “He forgets we’re not all older than Father Christmas.”
“Aw, you love it, Oliver,” Plaid Vest—Bernard—says, waving us over before hollering at the other men still camped out by the fire. “Come on, you lot. Get off your asses and join the fun. Lord knows you could use the exercise, and it’s Christmas dammit.”
I abandoned my broken shoe an hour ago, so I pad over in my stocking feet, already grinning as Bernard and his friend Albert—shorter moustache man— demonstrate what looks like a cross between the hokey pokey and someone having a seizure.
“It’s all in the hips, love,” Albert insists, demonstrating with an impressive amount of flexibility for a man his age. “Then you shout ‘Oi!’ and slap your knees. It’s great fun.”
“Looks like it.” I giggle as Olly gets in on the tutorial, hips swiveling right along with Bernard.
What follows is the silliest fun I’ve had in a long time. Olly and I follow their increasingly elaborate instructions while a bizarre song called “A Lovely Bunch of Coconuts” plays on repeat on the jukebox. We stomp and swivel and “oi!” until we’re all laughing so hard, we can barely breathe.
Then we switch partners and go for another promenade around the bar.
“Brilliant work,” Bernard cheers as he hands me off to Olly again, “but you’re meant to turn left, love, not right.”
“I did turn left!” I protest with a laugh.
“Your other left,” Olly says in my ear, spinning me back in the correct direction.
His hands are warm on my waist, and he smells like expensive whiskey and woodsy cologne. He’s also smiling down at me like he thinks I’m the best thing since figgy pudding, and suddenly, I can’t think of a single reason why I shouldn’t take him back to my room.
After all, you only live once, and so far, in my life, I’ve managed to make it twenty-eight years without ever meeting a man who made me want to jump straight into bed with him.
Who knows how long it might be before I meet another?
At this rate, I’ll be fifty-two by the time lightning strikes a second time, and I don’t imagine getting naked with strangers is something that gets easier with age.
By the time the coconut song finally gives way to an instrumental of “Good King Wenceslas,” the old men are beaming like they’ve just taught their grandchildren to ride bicycles, and I’m blushing bright red.
But it’s a determined blush, not an embarrassed one.
Now, I just have to figure out how one asks a man if he’d like to get naked together in a low-key, temporary sort of way…
“Right then, I’m off,” Albert says, bundling into his coat. “Got an early boxing class tomorrow. Mind how you go in this snow, ladies and gents.”
“Us, too,” Bernard agrees, holding his friend’s coat. “Best get tucked into bed before the drifts are too deep. Happy Christmas, Olly and Emily. It was a delight.” He shoots us a knowing wink as he joins the old man posse shuffling toward the door.
In a few moments, they’re gone, the jukebox shifts into another light instrumental, and the pub feels very peaceful.
Intimate…
“Fancy a glass of water by the fire?” Olly suggests.
“Sounds good,” I agree, grateful for a few more minutes to gather my one-night-stand courage.
We claim a cozy spot on a worn leather sofa, and Reggie appears with waters and two steaming mugs.
“Mulled wine on the house,” he announces. “The least I could do for the entertainment you two have provided tonight.” He nods over his shoulder as he backs away. “We’re starting closing duties, but you’re welcome to stay until we head for the door.”
“Thanks, Reg,” Olly says. “Appreciate it.”
I take a sip of the wine and moan. It tastes like Christmas in a cup—cinnamon and cloves and a citrus explosion. “Oh my God, this is so good. Where has this been all my life?”
“You don’t do mulled wine in New York?” he asks, scooting closer.
“Not really, no.” We’re still not touching, not quite, but he’s close enough that I’m keenly aware of the centimeters between his thigh and mine.