She laughed. “What?”

“Rugby. Come watch my match today. Or, if you prefer, meet us all for drinks at Maddie’s in Harlem afterward.”

For what felt like a week, she remained silent.

“Sara?”

“I’m thinking.”

I walked across the room and fidgeted with the blinds at my window overlooking the park. “Think louder.”

“I’m seeing a movie with a girlfriend this afternoon,” she began, and I felt a small tension unknot in my gut when she mentioned a friend. “But I guess I could be up for drinks later. What time do you think you’ll be done?”

Like even worse of a git than before, I made a little fist pump of victory and immediately wanted to smack myself. “Match will probably go until three. You could meet us at Maddie’s around four.”

“I will,” she said. “But Max?”

“Hmm?”

“Do you think your team will win? I don’t want to be drinking with a bunch of depressed, muddy Brits.”

Laughing, I assured her we were going to crush them.

We kicked their asses. I rarely ever felt bad for the other team—most teams we played were American and, although it wasn’t their fault they didn’t have rugby in their blood, it usually felt great to tromp them. But this may have been an exception. We stopped trying to score about halfway through. I had to attribute my generosity in part to knowing that Sara would meet us after. But only in part. By the end of the match it felt like we were beating up ten-year-olds in the mud, and I felt a twinge of guilt.

We roared into the bar, carrying Robbie on our shoulders and yelling the words to a rather filthy version of “Alouette.” The bartender and owner, Madeline, waved when she saw us, lined up twelve pint glasses, and began filling them.

“Oi!” Robbie shouted to his wife. “Whiskey, lass!”

Maddie gave him the V-sign but grabbed a handful of shot glasses anyway, mumbling something about Robbie’s drunk, muddy ass sleeping alone.

I scanned the room for Sara and came up empty. Swallowing my disappointment, I turned to the bar and took a deep drink of my beer. Our game had started late; it was already close to five and she wasn’t here. Was I really surprised? And then a horrible thought occurred to me: had she been here, waited, and left?

“Fuck,” I muttered.

Maddie slid a shot of whiskey to me and I downed it with a wince, cursing again.

“What’s wrong?” a familiar husky voice asked from behind me. “Looks to me like you dirty bastards won.”

I spun around on my bar stool and broke out into a grin at the sight of her. She looked like a cake topper, in a pale yellow dress and a tiny green pin in her hair. “You look beautiful.” Her eyes closed for a beat, and I murmured, “Sorry we’re late.”

She weaved a little where she stood, saying, “Gave me time to have a few drinks.”

I hadn’t seen her drunk since the night at the club, but I recognized a familiar light in her eyes: mischief. The thought of that Sara reappearing was f**king fantastic.

“You’re pissed?”

Her brows pinched together for a brief pulse and then smoothed as she smiled. “British for drunk? Yeah, I’m tipsy.” She stood on her toes then . . . and kissed me.

Holy. Fuck.

Beside me, Richie chimed in. “What the . . . Max. There’s a girl on your face.”

Sara pulled back and her eyes widened in realization. “Oh, crap.”

“Calm down,” I told her quietly. “No one here gives a f**k who we are. They hardly remember my name every week.”

“Patently untrue,” Richie said. “Your name is Twat.”

I tilted my head to him, smiling at Sara. “Like I said.”

She held out her hand and gave Richie her wide-eyed smile. “I’m Sara.”

He took her hand and shook it. I could see the moment he really looked at her and registered how ridiculously pretty she was. He immediately checked out her chest. “ ’m Richie,” he mumbled.

“Nice to meet you, Richie.”

He looked at me, eyes narrowed. “How the f**k you land that one?”

“No idea.” I pulled her closer, ignoring her mild protest that I was going to get her dress dirty. But then she wiggled free and turned to Derek, on my other side.

“I’m Sara.”

Derek put his beer down and wiped a grimy hand across his mouth. “Fuck yeah you are.”

“Sara’s with me,” I muttered.

And like this, Tipsy Sara worked her way down the bar, introducing herself to every single one of my mates. In her, I saw the politician’s wife she’d almost been, but even more than that, I saw that Sara was just a really f**king sweet girl.

When she returned to me, she kissed my cheek and whispered, “Your friends are nice. Thanks for inviting me.”

“Yeah, sure.” I lost my ability to form coherent thoughts. Almost nothing in my life made me feel the way she was making me feel—so bloody good. I wasn’t full of self-loathing, but I’d been a bit of a slut, worked in investments that, let’s be honest, relied on people losing money as much as others making it, and I’d fostered few deep connections since I’d been stateside. My closest friend was Will and most of the time we just called each other names that were all variations on the word pu**y.

Tell her, you dick. Pull her to the other side of the room, give her a good snog, and tell her you love her.

“Take this old blues shite off the speaker, Maddie,” Derek yelled across the bar.

And just as I was about to touch Sara’s elbow, ask her to come talk to me, she straightened. “This isn’t blues,” she said.

Derek turned around, eyebrows raised.

“It’s not. It’s Eddie Cochran. It’s rockabilly,” she said, but under his continued inspection she seemed to shrink a little. “They aren’t the same at all.”

“You know how to dance to this rubbish?” he asked her, looking her up and down again.

To my surprise, Sara laughed. “Are you asking?”

“Fuck no, I—”

But before he could finish his sentence, she’d jerked him to his feet, and all 115 pounds of her was dragging his enormous frame to the dance floor.

“My mom is from Texas,” she said, eyes sparkling. “Try to keep up.”

“You’re kidding,” he said, looking over at us. The entire bar full of Brits had stopped talking and was watching them with interest.