He pulled back. “Scottish,obviously.”
It was my turn to laugh. “Sounded more like a pirate.”
“I’ve found the more embarrassing, the friendlier they become.”
I shook my head. What on earth had I walked into?
Sighing, I resigned myself to my fate and stuck my hand out towards him. “I’m Kit, by the way.”
“Nice to meet you.” He smiled, his palm sliding against mine. “Jonah.”
The bartender arrived, placing the two full glasses on the bar. Jonah reached towards his jean pocket, assumedly for his wallet, but I stopped him.
“Let me get these.” I pulled a tenner from my purse.
“They won’t accept that.” Jonah shook his head, eyeing the cash in my hand.
“Why not?”
“That’s English money,” the bartender grumbled.
“It’s legal tender,” I argued.
“Might as well be francs,” Jonah answered.
“Isn’t it all the same?” I looked down at the note to inspect it. “It’s got the queen on it.”
Ignoring my protests, Jonah paid the bartender, grabbed both glasses, and turned, my drink stretched out towards me. “Apparently there’s some issue with the Scottish money down south, nobody accepts it. So, the owner of this fine establishment”—I broke eye contact, looking for the‘fine’to this beige cave—“took issue, and decided to serve a reverse Uno.”
“How charming.” I hummed, taking a sip. “Thanks, by the way. I’m lucky I ran into you. Apparently, you’re the key to getting a drink.”
“Did you just get into town?” he asked, leaning his jumper-clad elbow against the solid bar.
“Straight off the bus.”
“Here for family?”
I shook my head. “A little getaway.”
He smiled brightly, my heart swooning a little. “So, you thought two days before Christmasandin the middle of a snowstorm was the best time for a vacation?”
“This is closer to what I had wanted.” I peered out the window, watching the snow fall. “A cozy pub, some nice snowfall, some peace and quiet. Not ruining my feet in these vintage boots trying to find a taxi.”
What I hadn’t imagined was a six-foot-something American in a bar, with the worst Scottish accent I’ve ever heard, adding the potential for a holiday fling.
He nodded. “Are you staying in the village?”
I nodded. “A little outside of it. I think it’s calledMa-iomb-hammCottage?”
He nearly spat out his drink on a laugh. “MacIomhainn Cottage?” he repeated, but even with his American accent I instantly knew he’d said the name correctly. I nodded as he added, “That isnothow it is said. Don’t let any of the locals hear you.”
I gasped, offended by his words. “I am not about to be lectured on pronunciation by an American.”
He smiled coyly. “I’ve got news for you,London. You are.”
I was immediately thrown back in time, memories of my grandmother doing the same thing. Every visit she’d pull out a map and teach me how to say the local place names. Apparently, I’d gotten a little rusty over the years.
I sighed, tilting my head towards him. “Do you know where I can get a taxi?”
