Do Anything (5 page)

“And he bought that?”

“I doubt it, but I wasn’t budging, and I think he knew that.”

“Thanks for dealing with my mess,” I offer.

“Are you kidding?” Kenzie laughs. “Living in your incredible condo, dealing with your ex, is still loads better than my mom and dad’s incessant nagging.”

“Still riding you, huh?” I know things between her and her parents are volatile.

She sighs an extended breath. “Mom just knows how to push my buttons. She started in on the crap about when Ben and I are getting married.”

“What did you tell her?”

“To mind her own damn business.”

“I bet she loved that.” I laugh. I can see the scene unfold in my head.

There is a momentary pause, before Kenzie continues, “She has a point.”

“What? Kenz, what are you talking about?”

“Ben and I have been together almost as long as you and Jack were. You guys lived together and were about to get married. What the hell are Ben and I even doing? I can’t even get him to agree to get an apartment with me.”

“Don’t say that.” I know she cares about Ben, but she just grows impatient with the life she wants now and the stage they are in. “You know Ben loves you, and he only wants what will be best for the two of you.”

“I don’t know if he loves me more than his stupid video games.”

“That’s just silly,” I reassure her. “He works hard, and you know he plays those things to unwind.”

“I suppose.” I hear her swallow hard; I don’t think she believes me. “Enough of this depressing talk. Why don’t you go downstairs and speak to Mr. British McHottie.”

“You did not just say that,” I groan, rolling my eyes for good measure.

“I most certainly did, and if you don’t go hook up with him, I’m going to get on a plane, fly my ass over to England, and take care of this guy myself.”

“Shut up.” I try to keep my laughter down to a dull roar, unsure how much they can hear down in the pub.

“I’m serious, though; it’s dinner time there, right?”

“Yeah, so?”

“So … go down and have dinner. Sit at the bar, chat him up a bit,” Kenzie instructs. My heart starts to race. I’m still a little humiliated about earlier, but the idea of doing something completely out of character has me on the edge of my seat.

“Well?” she presses.

“All right, I’m going!” I insist.

“Oh my God, no you’re not,” Kenzie grumbles in disbelief.

I rise to my feet. “No, I promise. I just stood up, and I’m getting ready to head out of my room.”

“Ahhh!” she squeals in my ear. “I can’t believe it. Go get him, and then call me and tell me everything about it.”

“Love you, Kenz.”

“Love you, too, slut. Later.”

The phone clicks. I take a deep breath and prepare to make my way downstairs.
You can do this
, I tell myself. I laugh at my internal pep talk, shaking my head, and step out into the hall, telling myself silently,
You’re just going down to grab a bite to eat; no big deal
.

Much to my surprise, every table in the pub is full. There aren’t exactly a lot of tables in the first place, but given the rural setting, I never expected to see it so active. I can’t help but smile when I have a seat at the bar, thinking of Kenzie’s comments.

“There she goes again.” I hear Abner’s voice to my left, and let out a gust of air. Yeah, all was not forgotten by him. “You do find yourself amusing, don’t you?”

“Quit giving the poor girl a hard time,” I hear Holden’s voice as he approaches from the other end of the bar. “Don’t mind him. He’s like that with everyone. He thinks he’s a comedian or something.”

My grin splits my face in two, and I make a mental note to never say ’pardon me’ again in present company.

“I can’t help that I was born hilarious,” Abner replies, leaning toward me with a wink. “Any more than she can help being beautiful.”

“Oh yeah,” Holden adds, looking at me. “He’s an incorrigible flirt, too.”

I giggle— Abner is just as Bea described: a harmless and sweet older man.

I look up at Holden, who is now standing in front of me. Bea was right about him, as well. In this moment, ‘fit’ seems like a mild way to describe his physique. Jack is slender, and while he is lean, there isn’t any bulk to him. Holden is broad, solid, and I imagine he could pick me up with ease.

“Hungry?” he asks me, peering into my eyes. He doesn’t shift his gaze when I look up at him. I push back the dark strands that have fallen from my ponytail and look around for a menu. I see nothing.

“Um, yeah, I could eat.” I want to say I’m starving and please direct me to the nearest side of beef, but I restrain myself.

“Great, what will you have?” he asks, using a damp cloth to wipe down the bar in front of me.

“What do you have?” I inquire, my voice trembling in the slightest, as I see his shirt shift upward and expose the flesh on his hip. He points over his shoulder where I see a handful of items scribbled onto a chalkboard. “Oh— well, let’s see, how about the fish and chips.”

“Ab, can you tell Bea we need a tourist special,” Holden directs the old man with a grin. I watch as Abner hops to his feet and makes his way around the bar, more than happy to relay the information.

“Tourists’ special, huh?” I huff.

“I think every American who comes into this place orders fish and chips.”

“If it annoys you, why have it on the menu?”

“I never said it annoyed me,” he corrects.

“I see.” I grin, observing him as he returns to work. I try to ignore Kenzie’s voice in my head, telling me to jump on him. For all I know, he is married. I lean my head to one side, trying to catch a glimpse of his left hand. He reaches for a mug, and I see his finger is bare. At that, my stomach flutters.

“So …” I begin, clearing my throat, willing myself to be brave. I find out it is not so simple to will this. I swallow hard.

He turns, lifts an eyebrow, and asks, “Did you need something else?”

“Oh, no, not really. Just trying to make conversation, I suppose.” There, I said an entire sentence to him, so now the ball is in his court, and I can relax.

“Do you do that a lot?” Holden asks while busy making drinks behind the bar.

“Do what?”

“Try and make small talk with complete strangers?”

And there it is. My face goes hot, and I can only imagine bright red. I bow my head, unsure what to say in response, “I … um … I …”

My breath catches in my throat as, without warning, a strong hand touches my arm. I look up, and Holden is leaning down, smiling at me. He lifts my chin with a single finger, and looking into my eyes, he says, “I’m just playing with you, all right?” He then goes back to making what looks like a Tom Collins.

I feel awkward, but I give a soft laugh to try and break the silence.

“So what brings to you to our little corner of the world?” he asks, sliding a mug of beer down to the gentleman at the end of the bar. I lift my eyebrows, impressed by his aim.

“I’m here to visit Chawton.”

“I see … family or a reader?”

“Is it that obvious?” I ask, remembering the cabbie had nailed my reason for visiting as well.

“It’s not that large of a place—few other reasons to visit.”

“It’s that exciting, huh?” I grin, and wonder if I am coming off as weird or charming.

He shakes his head, delivers one more drink, and then leans down, placing his forearms on the bar to move in closer. “It can be quite exciting, in the right company.”

Okay, now I’m sure of it. This guy is flirting with me. I want to explode. I want to squeal at the top of my lungs that this gorgeous guy is flirting with me, but I fight for composure. “I see. Well, guilty as charged. I’m here to see where she penned some of her greatest works.”

I want to smack myself . He had opened the door for me to come back with an answer that would have led to us groping in a coat closet. Instead, I answer with a pretentious and nerdy rambling.

“Does that mean you’re a writer?” he asks, and I think he seems genuine in his interest.

“I wish. I’m an assistant editor. Well, I was,” I explain. My stomach tumbles when I think that my job might not be waiting for me when I return from this little adventure.

“What does an assistant editor do?” I’m relieved he glosses over the ‘was’ comment.

This isn’t the first time someone asked this question.

“We read books submitted to our publisher and look for anything that has potential for publication.”

“So you decide what gets published?”

“Not exactly … we decide what makes it to the next round of review,” I attempt to clarify.

Holden laughs and shakes his head.

“What’s so funny?” I ask, narrowing my brow.

“Nothing."

“Something’s funny.”

“No, it’s just that your job is to read books all day. You get paid to do this?”

“Are you saying I don’t have a real job?” I gasp.

“I just can’t imagine getting paid for something like that.”

“Hey,” I quip defensively. “I’m not sure I would consider serving drinks all that meaningful of an occupation.”

I stare at Holden, and he seems to squirm a bit before adding, “I wasn’t saying your job wasn’t meaningful. I’m sorry.” His smile is intoxicating, and I wonder if anyone has ever managed to stay annoyed with him.

“It’s fine; I know you were just kidding.” I’m nervous now, wishing I hadn’t lost my cool. “Well, I may not have a job anymore anyway.”

I close my eyes.
Why in the hell did I open that door?

“How do you not know if you have a job?”

“This trip … they couldn’t guarantee my job would be there when I got back,” I explain.

“Seems to me if you’re willing to take that kind of risk with your job, maybe it’s not your dream,” he reveals. My mouth hangs open, and I want to argue, but I am not sure what to say.

“One fish and chips,” I hear Bea’s voice from the kitchen and watch as a plate makes its way up to a pass-through window. Holden goes to grab the plate, and as he returns with the intoxicating smells, I find my mouth is literally watering.

He places the food in front of me, but doesn’t walk away. “So why would you leave to come here and visit Jane Austen’s home if it could mean losing your job?”

Don’t babble, Annabelle
, I tell myself.
He doesn’t need to know about your cheating ex fiancé
. “I’m not here to just visit Jane Austen’s home. My plan is to travel the world and visit all kinds of places that inspired authors.”

“Why? Do you want to be a writer or something?” His question gives me pause.

The answer should have been simple, but it wasn’t. “Well, no, not exactly. I mean, of course, I would love to be a writer, but my life isn’t nearly interesting enough.”

“Are there criteria to being a writer besides talent?” He snickers as he asks the question.

“A writer is supposed to write what they know.”

“So write what you know.” His answer seems so simple and obvious to him. He doesn’t understand.

I huff. “It’s not that easy. I’ve never had an adventure. I got my passport in college and then never left the country besides one trip to Mexico.”

“Well, that sounds like an adventure,” he offers.

“Yeah, let’s just say I drank the water.”

He bursts out with a thunderous laugh, and I wonder if those words came out of my mouth, and hope I had just imagined it.

I don’t know what to do, so I keep babbling, hoping I can redeem myself. “I went to school and got a job. I was going to marry my college—”
Damn it, Annabelle. There you go, sharing far too much information.

“Oh, I think now I’m beginning to understand.” The way he said those words drives me nuts. He doesn’t know me; hell, I don’t even know who I am, and I don’t appreciate insinuations.

“I doubt it. I’m here to see Jane Austen’s home, that’s it. No hidden agenda.”

“If you say so,” he replies, placing his hands up in the air in a surrendering motion.

I shove a french fry in my mouth and shift my attention around the room. At first, I think it’s his arrogance in assuming he knows anything about me that has pissed me off. But the longer I sit here, the more I realize what makes me so mad: he has me pegged a little too well. I am just as predictable as I had feared.

I wake up early, enchanted by the idea of borrowing one of the community bikes out in front of the inn. The Village of Chawton should only be a twenty-minute ride, at most, and I’m confident I can find my way.

After dinner last night, I’d slipped out of the bar and made my way back to my room. Many failed attempts at conversation had left me wanting to be alone in my room. Even though a fling with a gorgeous guy would have been exciting, it’s obvious to me now that it isn’t part of who I am.

Fast-forward and here I am—that ride that should have taken twenty minutes has turned into an hour-long frustration. All I’ve managed to find on my exploration is a bunch of dirt roads and farmland. I’m beginning to wonder if there are any road signs in England at all.

To make matters worse, the weather has shifted. When I left, the sky was bright, there was a cool breeze, and the clouds were of the large, white, and puffy variety. A perfect day, to say the least. Now I’ve been trying to outrun a ominous-looking storm front. It seems that no matter which way I turn, the winds shift to bring it right back in my direction.