Pub Crawl: A Romantic Holiday Story
Rusty Fischer
Pub Crawl:
A Romantic Short Story
By Rusty Fischer, author of Christmas in Snowflake
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Pub Crawl
Rusty Fischer
Copyright 2015 by Rusty Fischer
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This is a work of fiction. All of the names, characters, places and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or, if real, are used fictitiously.
Cover credit: © nenetus – Fotolia.com
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Author’s Note:
The following is a FREE short story edited by the author himself. If you see any glaring mistakes, I apologize in advance and hope you don’t take it out on my poor characters, who had nothing to do with their author’s bad grammar!
Happy reading… and Happy Holidays!
Enjoy!
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Pub Crawl:
A Romantic Short Story
“Cara?”
I turn, nervously, scanning the crowd to find a tall, thin guy waving at me. As promised, he’s wearing his “lucky shirt”. Literally: it’s a green T-shirt, faded from use, with the words “Lucky Shirt” printed in curving, white block letters over a matching white shamrock.
Just like the one I’m wearing.
“Ty?”
He nods, nervously, or maybe that’s just my nervousness overflowing onto him. Either way we drift through the crowd until we’re standing, face to face. Or nearly. Like I said, he’s pretty tall.
“I like your shirt,” we both say at the same time, as if playing the awkward blind date couple in a spearmint gum commercial.
“I dunno,” I say, scanning the small crowd gathered outside O’Malley’s, our first pub of the day. “It was a risk, considering the day and all.”
We both regard the dozen or so people gathered around the bike racks, each clad in a different shade of ironic green T-shirt. “I guess you’re right,” he says. “I guess if some other hot chick was wearing a ‘Lucky Shirt’ I would have gone to Plan B.”
“What’s that?” I ask, trying not to blush at his “hot chick” statement and wishing, for all the world, that he really meant it.
“Uh, yelling out ‘Cara’ at the top of my lungs.”
We laugh and I say, “I guess that would work.”
“Cara?” asks a familiar voice and I turn to find my new boss, Marnie Carlton, looking dapper in a non-ironic “Kiss Me On the Cheek, I’m Only Half-Irish” T-shirt. “I’m so glad you came.”
I snort. “Like I had a choice?”
She ignores me to size Ty up. “And you found a ‘+1’ on such short notice? I’m impressed.”
“Yes, this is—”
“Okay, people,” she says, ignoring my lame attempt at an introduction. “We’ve got a big day ahead of us so, without further adieu, let’s start the Gangland Graphics First Annual St. Patrick’s Day Pub Crawl with Pub # 1!”
There are hoots and cheers from the small crowd of employees and their plus-ones assembled in front of the humble pub. Ty looks about as nervous as I feel as we linger together while the crowd of eager pub crawlers streams past.
Who knew so many of my coworkers were such lushes?!?
“I have to say,” he teases, leaning into me to gently murmur, “this beats a ‘movie and dinner’ blind date any day of the week.” His arm is warm against mine. Is it just the spring weather? Or is he as nervous as I am?
“You say that now,” I sigh as we begin to follow the crowd inside. “But wait until you’re holding my hair over the toilet at the end of the night.”
He chuckles, nodding. “At least you did me the courtesy of wearing it in a ponytail. Much obliged.”
The club is already crowded despite the early hour. A benefit, I suppose, of St. Patrick’s Day being on a Saturday this year.
The crowd from Gangland Graphics clusters around the corner of the bar, angling for drink orders from the harried bartender. But as Ty and I lean against an empty high top table in the back, awaiting our turn, a busty barmaid approaches and says, “Ty!” before hugging him affectionately.
“Hey Tina,” he says, blushing slightly at the flurry of attention. “Happy St. Patrick’s Day.”
“Happy my foot,” she practically growls. “It’s the longest, cheapest and drunkest day of the year. What’s happy about that?” He smirks charmingly and then she notices me, nudging him playfully. “And who’s your new friend?”
“Hannah, this is Cara. We’re on a pub crawl.”
“Very original,” she chuckles. “Green beer all around?”
“Sure,” he says, winking at me. “I’ll follow you and save you the trip back.”
“You don’t have to do that, hon,” she says, “but I appreciate it just the same. Nice meeting you, Cara!”
“You too,” I start to say, but they’re already hustling back toward the crowded bar and the words fade on my lips.
“Nice one,” says my cubicle mate, Shailene Grossman, sidling up next to me with a neon green shot in a plastic souvenir glass.
“You think?” I hem nervously. “It’s my first blind date since moving to Snowflake, so… I’m a little rusty.”
“Beginner’s luck?” she says, licking some of the shot that’s spilled on her finger. “I say go with it.”
I chuckle, nodding at her drink. “What is that?” I ask.
“Leprechaun snot,” she chuckles, before tossing it back. “Yikes, and it’s strong!”
We’re laughing, gossiping about work when Ty begins shuffling back over. “Good luck,” she says, winking before sashaying away in a green ballerina tutu over green and black striped leggings that only she could pull off.
“Something I said?” he asks, setting two glasses of green beer down on the table.
“Just work stuff,” I chuckle, reaching for the glass. “Cheers!”
We clink glasses, sloshing a little, before sipping our first green beers of the day. It’s tangy, I’ll give it that. And cold, if nothing else. “Thanks for coming,” I say between sips as “Danny Boy” blares on the jukebox, a preview of things to come. “I didn’t… I kind of panicked when I heard we were supposed to bring dates to this thing.”
“A pub crawl blind date?” he teases, licking lime green foam off his soft, full lips. “How could I resist a message like that on SnowflakeSingles.com?”
“Do you use that site much?” I ask, trying not to sound like I’m prying – even though I completely, utterly, totally am.
He looks vaguely embarrassed. “First time. You?”
“Same,” I confess, knowing the feeling. “Like I said, I panicked.”
“So I’m not just a blind date?” he teases, arching one soft brown eyebrow and nudging my elbow with his. “I’m a mercy date?”
“No!” I groan, shaking my head. “Like I said, I’m terrible at this.”
“No you’re not,” he says, more quietly, eyes meeting mine in the dim bar light. They’re soft, and brown, and not just because of the light. “Everyone sucks at blind dates.”
“Not you,” I suddenly realize. “You’re… not nervous at all.”
“Maybe not on the outside,” he says, and we settle into drinking our beers. It’s mid-afternoon, our bikes locked up out front. No drinking and driving on this pub crawl, only drinking and biking.
The pub seems friendly and I wonder what it would be like if it weren’t St. Patrick’s Day and twelve of my closest co-workers weren’t gathered around, watching me fail miserably on my very obvious, very first blind date.
He peers around the crowd, curiously, giving me a chance to inspect him more closely. Besides his faded “Lucky Shirt,” which is clingy an
d soft against his broad shoulders and lean chest, he’s got on khaki cargo pants and brown canvas deck shoes. A dark green ball cap rests atop soft brown curls, a light green Shamrock on the front.
“Did you own that hat before this morning?” I tease him.
“Did you own that shirt?” he asks, one-upping me. “Or that shamrock barrette in your ponytail? Or your shamrock socks?”
I chuckle, halfway through my beer. “Okay, okay,” I say, hands up in mock surrender. “I just… it was nice of you, if you did. I mean, getting in the spirit for this dumb pub crawl.”
“I dunno,” he says, long fingers wrapped around his pint glass. “Now that I’ve met you, I’m thinking this could be kind of—”
“TIME!” calls out a harried voice, interrupting him mid-flirt. We turn to see Marnie Carlton, waving her empty wine glass and smiling at her troops. “Okay, gang. We’ve spent all the time we have allotted for Stop # 1. If you’ll refer to your guide maps, Stop # 2 is Finnegan’s. You’ve got five minutes to finish up, powder your nose and meet us out by the bike racks!”
“Guide maps?” Ty chuckles, setting down his empty beer glass and looking equal parts impressed and intimidated.
I drag
