How about he lets me worry about my expectations and stops being such a fun ruiner.

“Okay Mr. Cold Bucket of Water.”

He looks confused again, and honestly, this language barrier where he doesn’t understand—or refuses to understand—my dumb jokes is wearing on my nerves.

So frustrating.

All I’m trying to do is have a laugh and a daydream along with my beer and snacks; is that too much to ask?

I switch from the cheese to the nachos, scooping up meat and slimy orange sauce, stuffing it into my mouth.

“If it’s meant to be, it’s meant to be,” Ashley says at last, joining me in the appetizers.

We settle into another companionable silence, the music blasting from the speakers the only voice I want to be hearing right now.

Why am I so crabby?

What’s my problem?

And why does he have to touch me every single time he moves? Could he be any bigger?

Ugh.

Our fingers meet when I reach for the nachos again, and I rear back like he’s scalded me, his big hand hogging the platter and causing my eyes to run up the length of his forearm.

His tattoo-covered forearm.

“Your parents sound conservative—how do they feel about your tattoos?”

He chews.

Swallows. “Well.” Wipes his mouth with a paper bar napkin. “At first Mum almost had a heart attack—knickers were twisted about it for weeks, and I’d only gotten the one on my shoulder.” He takes a swig of beer to wash down the rest of the chip in his mouth. “Then I got another one at the end of my freshman year. It felt like something to do, you know?”

“It just felt like something to do? Who goes and gets tattoos because they’re bored? Lunatics, that’s who.”

That causes him to laugh, head tilting back, exposing his throat and the ink low on his collarbone. I can see glimpses of it peeking out above the neckline of his plain t-shirt.

“I’m not cracked in the knob. I like how they look.”

“Has your mom seen your arms?”

“Yeah, we FaceTime and she’s seen them. Thought she was going to faint when I got the one that says Mum.”

“How cliché.” I chuckle.

“At least I don’t have a motorcycle—that would put her over the edge. They’d commit me.”

“What’s your brother like?” I wonder out loud, free to dig into the chips now that his fist isn’t hogging them.

“Jack is…the opposite. Very proper lad, as you’d say. Buttons to the neck, same bird since we were in school, probably going to take a gap year after finishing college.”

Bird?

“What kind of bird?”

“I don’t know—she’s blonde. Her name is Caroline, quite a bitch actually.”

“His bird is a bitch?” I laugh. “What the hell does that even mean? It squawks too loud? Does it bite?”

Ashley considers me. “Are we talking about the same thing?”

“I don’t know—are we talking about an actual bird?”

He shakes his head. No. “His bird. His girlfriend? Caroline.”

I squint in his direction though he’s right in front of me. “Is bird one of those British terms that doesn’t mean the same thing in America?”

“Quite.”

Ahh, that makes sense andddd I’m an idiot.

How embarrassing.

“That’s a strange word for girl” is the only thing I can say, because I feel foolish.

He shrugs. “I didn’t invent it.”

That he did not.

I go back to the original subject. “How old is your brother?”

“He’s younger—twenty.”

“And he’s home with your folks?”

He shoots me a look. “He lives in London.”

I know nothing about London or what it takes to live there, but I do know it’s freaking expensive. How does a twenty-year-old afford it? Yikes.

“That’s right, I think you mentioned that.” Pause. “Has he come to visit you?”

“Yeah, he’s come to visit. Caroline wanted to see Chicago, so they came in for a few days then rented a car and drove up to see the city.” He plucks a mozzarella stick from the basket. “I think it’s her secret dream to have a place in America, too—she’s hoity-toity and has aspirations never to work a day in her life.”

This bothers him, I can tell.

“That’s too bad.”

Another shrug of those massive shoulders. “It’s Jack’s problem, not mine. I’m not the one dating someone who wants to be showered with gifts and have a membership to Annabelle’s.”

“What’s Annabelle’s?”

He’s still chewing. “The poshest club in the entire city of London. Costs a bloody fortune to be a member.”

Oh.

“She can dream on. It’ll never happen—Jack will never have that kind of blunt.” Chew, chew. “He won’t inherit.”

But I will.

The words aren’t spoken out loud, but they’re there as if he said them.

I wonder what all of it means, my overactive imagination building a story in my mind about Ashley’s background using the information I have: his sophisticated accent. The house he lived in alone, with the granite countertops and spare bedroom—with its own bathroom.

The brand new truck.

The boarding schools.

The talk of inheritances and exclusive clubs where you need memberships.

Out of my wheelhouse.

I knew girls growing up who lived like that, blue-blooded Southern belles whose families had been in the area for generations. Snotty, stuck-up girls who were members of country clubs and looked down their noses at people.

Noses they had surgically altered. Faces they had fixed, personalities they could not.

Not a world I want to be trapped in.

“Is that why you moved here?” I suddenly blurt out.

“Is what why I moved here? Annabelle’s?”

I giggle. “No. Did you move to the States to get away from your responsibilities? The people?”

His nod is slow. “Yes, I think so.” He starts up again, plucking at the mangled napkin he’s already picked apart and destroyed. “Not all of it’s bad—it just gets tiresome. I don’t want to do lunches and garden parties and fucking charity events the rest of my life. That’s not who I am.”

But that’s what I was born into.

“But you’re going to work for your dad?”

He nods again. “I happen to love numbers and finance, so I think it will be a good fit. And if it’s not…” His shoulders rise, blasé. “I used to go to the office with him sometimes if I was home on holiday, and I always loved it. He’d set me up with my own desk and have me calculate figures, and clients would come in to talk stocks.” Ashley stops talking. “What about you? What’s your family like?”

“My parents are your average Americans. They both work full-time, long hours. Yard work on the weekends. I grew up in a little house, no room for a dog, but it’s a cute place.” I think about how all this may sound to him, this description of my parents and upbringing. “No fancy clubs or charity events, if you don’t count the fundraisers at school so the soccer team could get new uniforms.”