The Pairing(3)

And here I am, in a pub five minutes from Trafalgar Square, muscling a new keg into position, being incredibly brave and independent and sexy of my own volition.

I can do this. I’m the Crocodile Hunter. I will learn, and I will have fun, and I will take it all back to the Somm at work and my kitchen at home where I come up with my own recipes. I will be my best, most confident, most competent self. I will not cram my stuff into my pack in a big tangled wad every morning or drop my phone in the Arno or leave my ID on an airport toilet paper dispenser (again). And I will not, at any point, wish I was doing it with Kit.

I barely even think of him anymore.

I kick the keg the final inch into place with the toe of my boot, then twist the coupler in and push the lever down.

“Guinness is back!”

When I stand, the manager is watching, his face ruddy and bemused. He pulls a half-pint from the new keg and passes it to me.

“You work in a pub back home?” he asks.

I take a sip. “Something like that.”

“Well,” he says, “you’re welcome to finish the shift. Match’s almost over, but Liverpool’s on at three.”

“At—at three?” My stomach drops. “Is it already—?”

Over a tattered leather booth by the door, a clock shaped like a Scottish terrier declares sixteen minutes to three.

Sixteen minutes until my tour bus leaves for Paris. Sixteen minutes until I lose my last shot at this trip, and a mile of unknown, untested London streets between this pub and the meeting point.

I whip the towel off my shoulder and do the unthinkable: chug my Guinness.

“I’m—eugh.” I suppress a burp that tastes like pure Irish vengeance. “I’m supposed to be at Russell Square in fifteen minutes.”

The manager and bartender exchange a grim look.

“You’d better get your skates on, then,” the manager says.

I hand him my empty glass and scoop up my pack.

“Gentlemen.” I salute. “It’s been an honor.”

And I take off running.


Someone yanks me back onto the curb just before a black cab clips me.

“Fuck!” I gasp, my life flashing before my eyes. Mostly swimming pools and cocktail shakers and casual sex. Not bad. Not impressive, but not bad. I look up at my savior, a tower of flannel and blond hair. “Forgot which way to look. I promise I’m about to leave the country and none of you will ever see me again.”

The man tilts his head, like a curious boulder.

“Do I look English to you?” he says in an accent that is certainly not English. It’s not Scottish or Irish either, though, so at least I probably haven’t insulted him. Finnish? Norwegian?

“No, you don’t.”

The light changes, and we keep walking in the same direction. This isn’t a meet-cute. Is this a meet-cute? I’m not into beards. I hope it’s not a meet-cute.

“You’re on the food and wine tour too?” the maybe-Norwegian guesses. I take in the pack on his broad back. It’s a big cross-country pack like mine, though mine looks twice as big on me. I may be tall, but I’m not genetically coded to push warships off beaches into the Nordic surf.

“Yeah, I am! Oh my God, I’m so glad I’m not the last one.”

“Yes,” the guy says. “I slept on a hillside last night. Did not think it would take so long to hike back.”

“To London?”

“Yes.”

“You—okay.” I have several questions, but no time. “I’m Theo.”

He grins. “Stig.”

It’s 3:04 when we reach Russell Square, where an older woman with a peppery, no-nonsense haircut is loading the final suitcase into the luggage compartment of what must be our bus.

“Are you needing help with the bags, Orla?” a rich voice calls in a thick Italian accent. A handsome bronze face appears in the doorway of the bus.

“Don’t you worry your pretty head,” the driver, Orla, returns. Her own accent is Irish.

“Do not seduce me unless you mean it,” the man says cheekily before catching sight of us. “Ah! The last two! Meraviglioso!”

As he bounds down the steps, the London gray erupts into steaming Napoli amber. This must be Fabrizio, the man listed as our guide in the email the tour company sent out with all the final information. He’s outrageously good-looking, dark hair waving over the nape of his neck, coarse stubble across his defined jaw artfully blending into the hair at his open collar. He looks made-up, like the guy who gives Kate Winslet her first orgasm in a movie about a divorcée in Sicily.

He flips a page on his clipboard, looking at me.

“You must be Stig Henriksson.”

“Uh—”

He tosses his beautiful head back and laughs. “Joking! Only joking! Ciao, Stig!” He steps up to Stig and kisses the cliff face of his cheek. “And that makes you Theodora!”

And then he’s pulling me in too, drawing his mouth across my cheek.

“Theo.” I rest my hand on his bicep and kiss his cheek, assuming that’s the right thing to do. When he pulls away, he’s smiling.

“Ciao bella, Theodora.” Almost no one calls me Theodora, but I like how it sounds in his mouth. Tay-o-dooora, with the R flipped on its back and the second O drawn out slow and tender, like he’s taking it out for a drink. I wouldn’t mind if this was a meet-cute. “Andiamo!”