Christmas In The City (Imperfect Match 1.50)

I glanced at him. “Beg your pardon?”

“A performance like that deserves a free drink,” he said with a kind smile, motioning me over to where he stood at the end of the bar, both hands flat on the surface. His grey beard made me think of Santa Claus.

“Guinness,” I said, drifting closer and finally pulling out a stool to sit. It was Gran’s favorite. I didn’t drink often, mostly because I couldn’t afford to, but the taste of stout always reminded me of her.

“You’ve a beautiful singing voice,” the barman said like it was a fact. “Merry Christmas.”

“Thank you,” I whispered.

He nodded then went to grab a glass, not realizing how much the small kindness meant to me. I felt a tear try to push its way out, but I sniffed it back. The last thing anyone needed was the sorry sight of me crying into my pint.

Out of the corner of my eye I caught movement and my gaze flickered up. A man had approached and I did a double take. He looked almost exactly like that actor who played Luke Cage on Netflix’s Marvel superhero show of the same name. Except—I noted, studying him as he lowered onto the stool next to mine—he wasn’t as broad. But he was tall and handsome and had presence.

“What’s it called?” he asked, like we were in the middle of a conversation, his alluring brown eyes warm and interested.

And I realized I was staring.

Tearing my eyes away, I blinked several times and cleared my throat before I could find my voice. “What’s what called?”

“The song,” he said softly.

I frowned, staring now at a scratch on the surface of the gleaming wood bar. “You’ve never heard ‘The Wind That Shakes the

Barley’ before?”

The bartender returned with my Guinness, setting it down in front of me, a nice, proper inch of frothy head capping the dark stout. I nodded my thanks and the older man was off again.

Meanwhile, the movie star lookalike at my elbow said nothing. I gave into the urge to look at him again and discovered not only was he just as insanely handsome as I’d thought, but he was studying me unabashedly, his lips curving into a small smile as our gazes met. “Unless you can’t tell—” his smile spread, showing me a scant bit of perfect, white teeth “—I’m not from around here.”

I could definitely tell. For one, there was the accent, and for two, he held himself in a confident way that screamed worldly. This pub wasn’t his local, that was for sure.

“American?” I asked, lifting my glass.

He nodded, tracking the progress of my pint as I took a sip. “New York. I’m here for work, but I leave tomorrow.”

I arched an eyebrow. “Tomorrow? You plan to leave on Christmas?”

“Yes.”

“Doing some sightseeing? Everything will be closed.”

“No,” he said easily. He leaned his elbow on the bar, like he was settling in for a while, and continued his perusal of me. “I’m flying home.”

Now I squinted at him, because his words made no sense. “How are you going to manage that?”

His smile returned and he said gently, “Well, see now, there are these contraptions called airplanes. And when—”

“No.” I laughed, shaking my head at his teasing. And then I continued shaking my head at the strangeness of this situation—sitting in a bar, on Christmas Eve, being teased by a Luke Cage look-alike. Maybe I’m in one of my dreams? DON’T WAKE UP!

“I mean, there are no flights in or out of Dublin on Christmas day,” I explained, turning to face him more completely. “There never have been. I hope someone hasn’t sold you a bridge in Brooklyn.”

“Ah. I see.” Now he blinked, his eyes cutting away and turning inward. “I-uh-well . . .” the mystery man’s head moved back and forth, like he was thinking things over, debating what to say. “I am flying out tomorrow, but not from Dublin Airport.” Abruptly, he frowned, and seemed to give himself a little shake before lifting his eyes to mine again.

He watched me, and I watched him, and my stomach gave a little flutter. His eyes were very distracting, so I could be forgiven for speaking without checking with my brain when I blurted, “Like a bird.”

“Pardon?”

“You. You’re a bird, flying with no plane.” For reasons unknown, I waved my hand in front of us and then, because some very intelligent part of me was now paying attention, I stopped myself from speaking further by gulping my Guinness. While I gulped, I searched for a harmless topic to discuss, half expecting him to excuse himself and leave me to my bird-accusations.