“She just left,” I said. “Can I help you with something?”
“No, that’s all right,” he said, his hand twitching toward the door. But before he could leave, a surge of people pushed in behind him—a rowdy, boisterous group blocking his escape route.
Trapped, he hesitated before reluctantly sliding onto a barstool. “Seltzer water, please,” he said, avoiding eye contact like the crowd might swallow him whole.
I poured the drink, set it in front of him, and leaned an elbow on the bar. “And who should I say is asking after Mrs. Brodie?”
“Call me Nigel.” He glanced behind me at the sign advertising Pimm’s Cup. “Nigel Pimmington.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Pimmington? That sounds… distinguished. Where are you from?”
“The English countryside.”
I tilted my head, amused. “Oh, really? What part?”
“A quaint little village,” he said, taking a sip of his drink.
I gave him a once-over. “So, Mr. Pimmington, when you’re not sipping Earl Grey and strolling through the heather, what do you do for a living?”
He hesitated just long enough to be suspicious. “I’m a blacksmith.”
I couldn’t help but chuckle at what was so clearly a line. “A blacksmith? Like, with an actual forge and an anvil?”
He gave a tight nod, giving a nervous look at the gathering crowd before turning back to me. “Yes. It’s a… respected trade in my village.”
“Mmhmm.” I leaned a little closer. “And what exactly do you forge?”
“Horseshoes,” he said smoothly. “And… shields.”
I tried not to laugh. “Shields? For what? Local dragon attacks?”
“For jousting,” he said.
I blinked. “You’re telling me jousting is still a thing in England?”
“It’s a niche sport,” he muttered.
“Well, if you’re ever in need of a damsel to rescue,” I said, my voice somehow going all coy without my permission, “I’ve been told I look good in distress.”
What did I just say?
Heat rushed to my cheeks. I wasn’t usually that girl who flirted so brazenly with customers. But something about him, whether his ridiculous story or his stupidly good posture, was throwing me off my game and replacing it with a completely different game.
His shades dipped low enough that I could catch the look in his bright blue eyes. He looked startled at first but then amused. “Do you faint easily? That’s a key qualification.”
“Only if someone’s waving a sword at me,” I replied, before I could stop myself.
Seriously, what was happening right now?
Was I... enjoying this?
Before I could process whatever I was doing or saying, something in the room shifted. Laughter dimmed. Chairs scraped. The air got tight, like a balloon stretched to its limit.
“That’s him,” someone whispered.
“No way,” another voice gasped, breathless.
I glanced toward a nearby table. A woman was pointing at Nigel while her friend frantically typed on her phone. The others were already leaning in, laser-focused.
