Page 2 of Best Wrong Thing

I stand. “You know what? I forgot I have an errand to run. Enjoy your coffee. I’ll see you around.”

“Can’t you stay for one drink?” Dad asks.

“No. Sorry. Congrats on your wedding. Let me know when the reception is.”

“Think about giving that speech. It would mean a lot to me.”

It would mean a lot to me. Dad uses that statement whenever he wants me to say yes, try harder, or keep a secret for him. When I was a child, it worked every time. Who am I kidding? I’m thirty-five, and it still works. But not this time. I’m not going to deliver a best man’s speech at his and Molly’s wedding reception.

I smile thinly and leave, pushing through the throng of pedestrians on the street. I need a drink. A strong one. Getting utterly rat-arsed sounds like an amazing plan.

I walk into the first bar I find. The dark green interior and brass bar rails give off a sophisticated, welcoming vibe, which is complimented by verdant plants hanging from the ceiling and standing on the windowsills. It’s filling up with people in smart to smasual attire, presumably grabbing drinks after work. It’s what my work colleagues and I do some days. I never drink alone. Until today. I find a space at the bar.

“What can I get you?” The barman is in his early twenties. A student, perhaps? He has brown, floppy hair swept to the left, dark blue eyes, a nice smile, and an athletic build.

“A pint of your best draught beer and a shot of tequila to chase it down with, please.”

“Got sorrows to drown?” He selects a glass and pulls a pint.

“You could say that.”

“It’s pretty quiet if you want to talk about it.”

“Thanks for the offer, but I’m good.”

“Suit yourself.” He puts the pint on a beer mat, prepares a shot glass with a half-salt rim, and pours tequila into it. He rings my order up on the till.

I wince at the total and hand him a ten-pound note. I’ll have to switch to paying by card after the next round. Would he set up a tab for me? On the other hand, I’m usually a social drinker, so it probably won’t take much to make me paralytic.

I sip the beer. It’s cool and refreshing. Much better than coffee with Dad and his new wife.

The barman busies himself wiping surfaces with a cloth between serving customers. More people come in, although no one else seems interested in staying at the bar after ordering drinks. He saunters back to me.

“What’s your name?” I ask.

“Archer. You?”

“Jacob.”

He holds out his hand. I accept and shake it. His grip is firm and warm.

“How long have you worked here?”

“Three years.”

“Have you been legal that long?” Fuck. What a stupid thing to ask.

“Just about.” He winks and turns away to serve someone else.

So he was eighteen when he started work here, which means he’s twenty-one.

Is ogling the cute barman a better way of escaping my woes than searching for the bottom of a beer glass? Probably. He doesn’t seem to mind me staring at him. Every time he meets my gaze, his cheeks are pink, and he smiles adorably.

He’s too young.

I can still look. Can’t I?

“Are you a student?” I ask.