“Stop drooling,” I said, though I couldn’t look away either.
As if summoned, Mrs. Brodie hurried up to him and clasped his arm like they were old friends. She led him toward the back office, chatting animatedly.
We caught snippets of a strong Irish brogue.
“GorgeousandIrish,” Marie Antoinette murmured, swiping at an imaginary tear. “Oh, come to mama. He’s the pot of gold at the end of my rainbow.”
I rolled my eyes. “He’s probably here to sell whiskey or something.”
Just then, the bar was hit by a sound that made my teeth ache. “Today’s ALL about ME!”
The screech was followed by the arrival of a bride-to-be, charging into Muses like a glitter bomb with legs. Her white tank top declared in cursive letters“Queen of the Day,”as if there was any doubt.
Trailing behind her was her entourage, all in matching black tanks with their designated roles blazoned across the front:“Sister of the Queen,” “Known the Queen Since Kindergarten,”and my personal favorite,“Barely Tolerating the Queen.”
I snorted, unable to help myself. “That last one’s got a story.”
Marie Antoinette leaned over the bar, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “I’ll bet ten bucksBarely Tolerating the Queenis the first one to lose her mind tonight.”
“You’re on,” I said, wincing when the group commandeered three tables with the precision of military generals.
“Where are my shots? I want them now!” the bride demanded, her voice like nails on a chalkboard.
I grabbed a tray and started loading it up, bracing myself for whatever chaos they were about to unleash.
And chaos they delivered.
The first thing they whipped out? Straws. But not just any straws. These featured a rathernotablepart of Michelangelo’s David, if you catch my drift.
Of course.
They didn’t just take their shots; they sipped them through those straws like it was some kind of twisted tea party. The bride held hers aloft like a royal scepter, her laughter loud enough to drown out the band.
The chaos reached a fever pitch when the bachelorette party set their sights on their next victim: the pool table. Two bridesmaids climbed up, turning it into a makeshift stage. They danced like they were auditioning for a music video.
The band faltered, patrons groaned, and I was mentally drafting my resignation letter when I spotted the young Hugh Grant look-alike from earlier, apparently finished with his discussion with Mrs. Brodie. The guy shifted, sunglasses still on, and started edging toward the door with the kind of practiced nonchalance that screamedI’m not trying to sneak out, but I’m absolutely sneaking out.
My brain made the leap instantly:Luke.
Then immediately rolled its metaphorical eyes:Oh my gosh, get a grip. Not every tall guy in aviators is your movie star crush.
That’s when the bride noticed him. She had been enthusiastically cheering on her friends’ dance moves, but when she saw the Irishman, she froze mid-cheer. Her eyes locked onto him like a predator spotting prey. Without hesitation, she charged toward him, a cocktail sloshing precariously in her hand.
“You’re the spitting image of Hugh Grant,” she announced, her voice carrying over the band and the general chaos.
The man offered her a polite smile. “Ah, cheers,” he said.
The bride’s eyes widened. “No way, are youIrish? I amobsessedwith Irish guys.”
Before he could formulate a response, the floodgates opened. Bridesmaids swarmed like moths to a flame, circling him with giddy laughter and overly familiar grins.
“I’d doanythingfor a bit of Irish luck tonight,” one cooed.
“If he’s the leprechaun guarding the pot of gold, I’m ready for a chase,” another one quipped, sending the group into fits of giggles.
To his credit, the man remained polite. “You ladies look like you’re having a grand time. The evening must be treating you well.”
He spoke calmly, but I caught the slight edge to his tone, and his jaw tightened as his eyes darted toward two large men in the corner who were completely engrossed in the bridesmaids’ impromptu dance routine on the pool table.
