Mistletoe and Magic, page 8
He left before she could ask what he meant.
That evening, after a quiet dinner in the inn’s small dining room, Eva climbed the stairs to her room. She opened the desk drawer and found a small stack of Riddle & Quill stationery—cream coloured paper with the inn’s logo embossed at the top.
She sat at the small desk, pen poised, thinking about the day. About Charlie’s careful deflections, about the hidden corners of the Minster, about the American who left his heart in York. Then she began to write:
There are stories that live in the spaces between stones, in the silence after church bells stop ringing. York keeps them all—the nurse who wrote love into a broken world, the American soldier who never quite made it home, the people who make up the tapestry of this ancient city.
Today a man showed me hidden angels in ancient walls. He spoke of craftsmen who built beauty they’d never see completed.
In the north transept of York Minster, there’s a plaque that reads: ‘For the American who left his heart in York.’ The brass has worn smooth from touching, as if people come here to remember their own lost loves, their own unfinished stories.
Charlie knows who the American was. I saw it in the way his hands tightened, the way he turned away. Some pain runs so deep it becomes part of the architecture of a family, passed down like brown eyes or stubborn chins.
I came to York following a stranger’s breadcrumbs, but I’m beginning to understand that Margaret Wells wasn’t leaving clues—she was leaving a confession, scattered across the city in pieces small enough to bear.
She folded the letter carefully and tucked it into the green book. Through her window, York glowed under the streetlights, and somewhere out there were more pieces of Margaret Wells’ story, waiting patiently to be found.
Chapter Six
Fish, Chips and Friction
Eva hadn’t planned on having dinner at the local pub. In fact, she hadn’t planned much of anything beyond following a quest sparked by a mysterious green book. Planning had once been her superpower—the Eva Coleman specialty. Now she was following breadcrumbs through an ancient city, and strangely, it felt more right than any carefully plotted course she’d ever charted.
Earlier that day, she’d made what she considered a brilliant discovery at the local Tesco Express. The meal deal—a sandwich, snack, and drink for £3.50—had seemed like the pinnacle of British efficiency and value. She’d chosen an egg and cress sandwich (because when in England), salt and vinegar crisps (also very British), and a bottle of Ribena (which she’d never heard of but the purple colour looked appealing).
“Florence, you’ll never guess what I discovered today,” Eva had announced upon returning to the inn, holding up her Tesco bag like a trophy. “Have you ever had a meal deal? It’s genius. Three items, one price. And this egg and cress sandwich—I mean, who knew cress could be so good?”
Florence had looked up from her book, eyebrows climbing towards her hairline. “You had a meal deal for lunch?”
“Yes! And these chips—sorry, crisps—that’s right isn’t it? Anyway, they’re so vinegary they make your eyes water. It’s fantastic. Is this what British people eat every day?”
“Oh, love,” Florence had said, closing the covers together with a definitive boom. “That’s not a proper meal. That’s what office workers grab when they’ve got five minutes between meetings. You can’t experience British food through a plastic triangle sandwich.”
“But it was so convenient—”
“Convenient?” Florence had looked personally offended. “You’re in York, not some motorway service station. Tonight, you’re going to The Horse and Hound for a proper meal. Fish and chips, done right. None of this meal deal nonsense.”
“I don’t know, the sandwich was pretty good—”
“I won’t hear it, that is a sorry excuse for a meal. The Horse and Hound—that’s where you’ll find real British cooking. Tell Oliver I sent you. And for heaven’s sake, don’t mention the meal deal. He’ll bar you for life.”
Which was how Eva found herself at The Horse and Hound, discovering again that Florence had been absolutely right. The pub was the kind of place that seemed to have been marinating in beer for centuries, the dark oak floors were sticky underfoot and the low ceiling was stained a deep amber from decades of tobacco smoke before the ban. Brass fixtures glowed dully in the warm light. The whole place smelled of beer, chips, and history.
The wooden beams overhead were so low that a sign at the entrance warned ‘DUCK OR GROUSE’—which Eva initially thought was a drink option until she nearly concussed herself on a particularly treacherous beam. A string of Christmas lights had been half-heartedly tacked around the bar, blinking erratically as if they were trying to send a coded distress signal.
“You all right, love?” the bartender asked when she approached.
“Yes, thanks,” Eva said, rubbing her forehead. “Just getting acquainted with British architecture.”
“First rule,” he said, “everything’s shorter than you think it’ll be. Except the history. That’s longer.”
“Florence sent me,” Eva added. “She said I needed a proper meal.”
Oliver’s face lit up. “Ah, she’s saved another one from the tyranny of supermarket sandwiches, has she? Good woman, Florence. You’ll be wanting the fish and chips then.”
Eva noticed Charlie sitting at the bar when she arrived, nursing what she assumed was a whiskey, his back to the door. He wore the same navy beanie from their market encounter, but had swapped the wool coat for a worn flannel shirt. Tilly lay curled at his feet, occasionally lifting her head when the door opened.
Charlie had nodded briefly when Eva entered but made no move to join her, which suited her fine. After their moment at the Minster earlier, she wasn’t sure where they stood. He blew between hot and cold far more erratically than the inn’s shower and she didn’t need to concern herself with a man’s mood any time soon.
The menu was a laminated sheet listing items that sounded simultaneously familiar and alien: Toad in the Hole, Ploughman’s Lunch, Spotted Dick. A chalkboard by the bar announced daily specials like ‘Proper Pie & Mash’ and ‘Gran’s Sunday Roast’, alongside a note that read ‘No, we don’t have bloody sriracha.’ Eva ordered the fish and chips, as instructed, although she wasn’t entirely sure what ‘mushy peas’ were and whether she should be excited or concerned about them.
“With scraps?” the bartender asked when she ordered.
Eva blinked. “What?”
“Scraps,” he repeated, as if saying it louder would translate the term into American. “The crispy bits from the fryer.”
“Oh,” Eva said, trying to sound like she understood perfectly. “Yes, please.”
“Good lass,” he said approvingly. “Can’t have proper fish and chips without scraps. Criminal, that would be.” Eva nodded solemnly, as if she hadn’t just learned a new culinary term that sounded like something you’d feed to particularly fortunate dogs.
Eva excused herself to the bathroom and noticed a painting of a horse on the toilet seat and paintings of little hounds trotting all over the bathroom walls. So the pub name made perfect sense. Eva giggled. She washed her hands under the two taps of the sink, furiously bobbing her hands from hot to cold.
She settled herself into a worn booth in the corner, the dark red vinyl seat patched in at least three places with duct tape. The table wobbled when she leaned on it, steadied by what appeared to be a folded coaster under one leg. The wall beside her was covered in black and white photographs of York from bygone eras—flooded streets from the 1950s, celebrations from the end of the war, serious-faced men standing outside this very pub when it was still lit by gas lamps.
Eva sipped a half-pint of something amber the bartender had recommended when she’d requested “something not too beer-ish.” It tasted like bread in liquid form, but in a pleasant way that grew on you, like a first date that starts awkwardly but improves after appetisers arrive.
The pub was filled with locals—not the pressed-khaki tourists from the Christmas Market, but people who looked like they might argue about football (so, soccer) scores and know each other’s grandparents. An old man in the corner was explaining something passionately to an audience of two, his hands tracing shapes in the air with the precision of someone who has told this particular story many times and has perfected the choreography. Behind the bar, a shelf displayed dozens of local gin varieties and hand-labelled jars of what appeared to be home-infused spirits.
A pair of men in their sixties were playing dominoes near the fireplace with the intense concentration of chess grandmasters, slapping each tile down with a theatrical flourish and occasional exclamations of “Gerrin!” or “You’re having a laugh!” Two middle-aged women at the next table were deeply engaged in what Eva could only assume was top-tier gossip, their conversation punctuated with “I’m not being funny, but …” and hushed “No, she never did!”
The door to the pub opened periodically, letting in gusts of cold air and a chorus of greetings. Each new arrival seemed to warrant a series of nods, nicknames, and inside jokes, creating a symphony of “All right, Dave?” and “Evening, all” and “Look what the cat dragged in!”
While waiting for her food, Eva took in the room. There, right by the fireplace where she sat she noticed a small brass plaque on the wall, partially hidden behind a Christmas wreath. She moved the greenery aside to read:
The Veterans’ Corner Established 1946 by M. Wells “Every soldier needs a home fire”
“See you’ve found our bit of history,” Oliver the bartender said, appearing at her elbow. “That’s from Margaret Wells, she set up a fund after the war. Any veteran could come here for a hot meal and a pint, no questions asked, no payment needed.”
“That’s lovely,” Eva said, tracing the worn letters.
“Still going, too,” Oliver said proudly. “The fund ran dry years ago, but we keep it up. Got three regulars who come in under Margaret’s Promise, we call it. Old Dennis there—” he nodded towards a man nursing a half-pint by the window, “—he’s been coming since the sixties. Says this place saved him when he had nowhere else to go.”
Eva looked at the elderly man, who raised his glass slightly in her direction.
“She understood,” Oliver continued, polishing a glass that was already clean. “Some hurts can’t be fixed with medicine. Sometimes you just need a place where nobody asks questions and the fire’s always lit.”
Oliver handed her the huge platter of fish and chips, sitting on top of a sheet of newspaper print that sucked in the grease. The chips were thick and golden, nothing like the skinny fries from home, and the promised “scraps” turned out to be deliciously crispy fragments of batter scattered across the top like savoury confetti. The mushy peas were exactly what they sounded like—a vibrant green mash that tasted better than their appearance suggested, especially when mixed with the sharp malt vinegar she’d been instructed to apply “generously, love, not like you’re paying for it.”
This was definitely not a meal deal. This was an experience. Florence had been right—again. Damnit, that woman knew what she was talking about.
She was halfway through her meal, lost in the simple pleasure of proper comfort food and mentally composing her apology to Florence for ever thinking a triangle sandwich could compare, when the pub door swung open, letting in a gust of cold air and a man who could only be described as the kind of handsome that belongs in glossy magazines—the type whose eyebrows appear to have their own stylist and whose five o’clock shadow arrives precisely at five, perfectly distributed like it was applied by a mathematical algorithm.
He was tall and lean, with dark hair styled deliberately rather than simply existing. He wore a camel coat over a blue sweater that looked so much like cashmere Eva could practically feel it from across the room. His smile, when he flashed it at the bartender, was the work of orthodontics that someone had paid dearly for.
“Oliver! How are you, mate? Gin and tonic, double lime,” he called, his accent more London than Yorkshire.
“Aidan! As I live and breathe,” the bartender replied. “Haven’t seen you since summer. What brings you up from London?”
At the bar, Charlie straightened, his shoulders tensing visibly. He drained his whiskey in one swallow but didn’t immediately leave.
“Business, unfortunately. Though it’s always good to be home. How’s Nancy?”
“Pregnant. Again.”
“Congratulations! Or condolences. Whichever’s more appropriate.”
Eva watched the exchange with interest, trying not to be obvious about it. The new arrival—Aidan—had the easy charm of someone accustomed to being welcome anywhere. He scanned the pub as Oliver prepared his drink, and his eyes landed first on Charlie, then on Eva.
Recognition, followed by something else—curiosity, maybe—flashed across his face. He collected his drink and, rather than acknowledging Charlie, headed straight for Eva’s table.
“You must be the American staying at Florence’s,” he said, his smile turning up a notch. “I’m Aidan. May I?” He gestured to the empty seat across from her.
God, word does travel fast around here, doesn’t it? Eva thought to herself. Suddenly conscious of having vinegar and grease on her fingers and probably her face, she wiped her hands hurriedly on a napkin. Eva wondered if she had tartar sauce on her chin, but quickly realised that if she did it was far too late to try to save the situation. Nothing like meeting an impossibly polished man while you’re mid-bite into fried food.
“Eva,” she said, making a quick calculation that refusing him would be awkward in a place this small. “Please, sit.”
He slid into the booth with the kind of grace that suggested he’d never awkwardly bumped a table or knocked over a saltshaker in his life. “So, what brings you to our little corner of England? Most Americans stick to London and Edinburgh.”
“I needed a change of scenery,” Eva said, which wasn’t exactly a lie. “York seemed … interesting.”
“Interesting is one word for it,” Aidan said, sipping his drink. “I’d go with ‘stubbornly resistant to the passage of time.’”
“You don’t like it here?”
“I grew up here. It’s complicated.” He gestured around the pub. “Places like this—they’ve got charm, history, atmosphere. But they’re dying. They can’t adapt, can’t compete.”
“With what?” Eva asked.
“Progress. Chain hotels. Modern amenities.” He leaned forward slightly. “Most people say they want authentic experiences until they realise authentic means draughty rooms, weird plumbing, and Wi-Fi that works when it feels like it.”
Eva thought of the Riddle & Quill, with its creaking floors and temperamental radiators. “Some people might find that charming.”
“Some people,” Aidan agreed. “But not enough to keep places like this profitable.”
There was something familiar about him—not his face, but his manner. The easy confidence. The subtle assessment. He reminded her of Richard, or at least what Richard aspired to be.
“So what do you do?” she asked, taking another bite of her fish. She knew this was a classic American line of questioning, but she had no idea what else to say. What do people talk about?
“I’m in real property development. Historic properties, mainly.” He said it casually, but there was a careful watching in his eyes, as if gauging her reaction. “We restore old buildings, convert them into usable spaces for today’s market.”
“Like turning pubs into luxury flats?” Eva couldn’t help asking, thinking of Trinkett’s tour.
Aidan’s smile tightened slightly at the edges. “Sometimes. Though I prefer to think of it as giving these buildings a new life. Better renovated than falling apart, right?”
“I’m not sure everyone would agree,” Eva said. “There’s something irreplaceable about these old places—the community they create, the history they preserve.”
“You sound like someone I used to know,” Aidan said with a dry laugh. “Always going on about ‘preservation’ and ‘heritage.’”
“Maybe they have a point,” Eva said, surprising herself with her conviction. “Places like this are more than just buildings. They’re living history.”
“What about you?” he asked, shifting the conversation. “Tell me about where you’re from and what you do.”
“Nashville born and raised. I work in the music industry.” Eva started off boldly, but faltered slightly. “It’s … different from what people imagine,” she said carefully. “A lot of spreadsheets and marketing meetings. Not as glamorous as it sounds to be honest.”
“But surely you love it? The energy of a big American city? The opportunities?” Aidan leaned forward, genuinely curious. “I’ve always wondered what it would be like to live somewhere so … modern. So forward-thinking.”
Eva found it odd how eager he was to hear about anywhere that wasn’t York. While Charlie had shown her hidden corners of the Minster with reverent attention, Aidan seemed to want to look everywhere but here.
“Nashville has its charms,” she said. “But I’m actually enjoying the history here. The layers of stories within every building.”
Aidan waved a hand dismissively. “Stories don’t pay mortgages. But tell me more about your work. You must travel a lot? See other cities?”
Before Eva could respond, Charlie appeared at their table, Tilly at his heels. His expression was carefully neutral, but Eva caught the tension in his shoulders.
“Aidan,” Charlie said flatly.
“Well, well. Charlie Blackwood.” Aidan’s smile sharpened. “Still haunting the same old places, I see.”
“Some of us appreciate consistency,” Charlie replied. His eyes flicked to Eva. “Not everyone needs to run off to London to prove something.”
“And not everyone needs to hide in the past to avoid facing reality,” Aidan shot back. He turned to Eva with that practiced smile. “Charlie and I were at school together. Back in the day.”
Eva sensed layers of history between them that went beyond a casual acquaintance. The way they stood—Charlie rigid, Aidan lounging—spoke of old rivalries and unresolved tensions.
That evening, after a quiet dinner in the inn’s small dining room, Eva climbed the stairs to her room. She opened the desk drawer and found a small stack of Riddle & Quill stationery—cream coloured paper with the inn’s logo embossed at the top.
She sat at the small desk, pen poised, thinking about the day. About Charlie’s careful deflections, about the hidden corners of the Minster, about the American who left his heart in York. Then she began to write:
There are stories that live in the spaces between stones, in the silence after church bells stop ringing. York keeps them all—the nurse who wrote love into a broken world, the American soldier who never quite made it home, the people who make up the tapestry of this ancient city.
Today a man showed me hidden angels in ancient walls. He spoke of craftsmen who built beauty they’d never see completed.
In the north transept of York Minster, there’s a plaque that reads: ‘For the American who left his heart in York.’ The brass has worn smooth from touching, as if people come here to remember their own lost loves, their own unfinished stories.
Charlie knows who the American was. I saw it in the way his hands tightened, the way he turned away. Some pain runs so deep it becomes part of the architecture of a family, passed down like brown eyes or stubborn chins.
I came to York following a stranger’s breadcrumbs, but I’m beginning to understand that Margaret Wells wasn’t leaving clues—she was leaving a confession, scattered across the city in pieces small enough to bear.
She folded the letter carefully and tucked it into the green book. Through her window, York glowed under the streetlights, and somewhere out there were more pieces of Margaret Wells’ story, waiting patiently to be found.
Chapter Six
Fish, Chips and Friction
Eva hadn’t planned on having dinner at the local pub. In fact, she hadn’t planned much of anything beyond following a quest sparked by a mysterious green book. Planning had once been her superpower—the Eva Coleman specialty. Now she was following breadcrumbs through an ancient city, and strangely, it felt more right than any carefully plotted course she’d ever charted.
Earlier that day, she’d made what she considered a brilliant discovery at the local Tesco Express. The meal deal—a sandwich, snack, and drink for £3.50—had seemed like the pinnacle of British efficiency and value. She’d chosen an egg and cress sandwich (because when in England), salt and vinegar crisps (also very British), and a bottle of Ribena (which she’d never heard of but the purple colour looked appealing).
“Florence, you’ll never guess what I discovered today,” Eva had announced upon returning to the inn, holding up her Tesco bag like a trophy. “Have you ever had a meal deal? It’s genius. Three items, one price. And this egg and cress sandwich—I mean, who knew cress could be so good?”
Florence had looked up from her book, eyebrows climbing towards her hairline. “You had a meal deal for lunch?”
“Yes! And these chips—sorry, crisps—that’s right isn’t it? Anyway, they’re so vinegary they make your eyes water. It’s fantastic. Is this what British people eat every day?”
“Oh, love,” Florence had said, closing the covers together with a definitive boom. “That’s not a proper meal. That’s what office workers grab when they’ve got five minutes between meetings. You can’t experience British food through a plastic triangle sandwich.”
“But it was so convenient—”
“Convenient?” Florence had looked personally offended. “You’re in York, not some motorway service station. Tonight, you’re going to The Horse and Hound for a proper meal. Fish and chips, done right. None of this meal deal nonsense.”
“I don’t know, the sandwich was pretty good—”
“I won’t hear it, that is a sorry excuse for a meal. The Horse and Hound—that’s where you’ll find real British cooking. Tell Oliver I sent you. And for heaven’s sake, don’t mention the meal deal. He’ll bar you for life.”
Which was how Eva found herself at The Horse and Hound, discovering again that Florence had been absolutely right. The pub was the kind of place that seemed to have been marinating in beer for centuries, the dark oak floors were sticky underfoot and the low ceiling was stained a deep amber from decades of tobacco smoke before the ban. Brass fixtures glowed dully in the warm light. The whole place smelled of beer, chips, and history.
The wooden beams overhead were so low that a sign at the entrance warned ‘DUCK OR GROUSE’—which Eva initially thought was a drink option until she nearly concussed herself on a particularly treacherous beam. A string of Christmas lights had been half-heartedly tacked around the bar, blinking erratically as if they were trying to send a coded distress signal.
“You all right, love?” the bartender asked when she approached.
“Yes, thanks,” Eva said, rubbing her forehead. “Just getting acquainted with British architecture.”
“First rule,” he said, “everything’s shorter than you think it’ll be. Except the history. That’s longer.”
“Florence sent me,” Eva added. “She said I needed a proper meal.”
Oliver’s face lit up. “Ah, she’s saved another one from the tyranny of supermarket sandwiches, has she? Good woman, Florence. You’ll be wanting the fish and chips then.”
Eva noticed Charlie sitting at the bar when she arrived, nursing what she assumed was a whiskey, his back to the door. He wore the same navy beanie from their market encounter, but had swapped the wool coat for a worn flannel shirt. Tilly lay curled at his feet, occasionally lifting her head when the door opened.
Charlie had nodded briefly when Eva entered but made no move to join her, which suited her fine. After their moment at the Minster earlier, she wasn’t sure where they stood. He blew between hot and cold far more erratically than the inn’s shower and she didn’t need to concern herself with a man’s mood any time soon.
The menu was a laminated sheet listing items that sounded simultaneously familiar and alien: Toad in the Hole, Ploughman’s Lunch, Spotted Dick. A chalkboard by the bar announced daily specials like ‘Proper Pie & Mash’ and ‘Gran’s Sunday Roast’, alongside a note that read ‘No, we don’t have bloody sriracha.’ Eva ordered the fish and chips, as instructed, although she wasn’t entirely sure what ‘mushy peas’ were and whether she should be excited or concerned about them.
“With scraps?” the bartender asked when she ordered.
Eva blinked. “What?”
“Scraps,” he repeated, as if saying it louder would translate the term into American. “The crispy bits from the fryer.”
“Oh,” Eva said, trying to sound like she understood perfectly. “Yes, please.”
“Good lass,” he said approvingly. “Can’t have proper fish and chips without scraps. Criminal, that would be.” Eva nodded solemnly, as if she hadn’t just learned a new culinary term that sounded like something you’d feed to particularly fortunate dogs.
Eva excused herself to the bathroom and noticed a painting of a horse on the toilet seat and paintings of little hounds trotting all over the bathroom walls. So the pub name made perfect sense. Eva giggled. She washed her hands under the two taps of the sink, furiously bobbing her hands from hot to cold.
She settled herself into a worn booth in the corner, the dark red vinyl seat patched in at least three places with duct tape. The table wobbled when she leaned on it, steadied by what appeared to be a folded coaster under one leg. The wall beside her was covered in black and white photographs of York from bygone eras—flooded streets from the 1950s, celebrations from the end of the war, serious-faced men standing outside this very pub when it was still lit by gas lamps.
Eva sipped a half-pint of something amber the bartender had recommended when she’d requested “something not too beer-ish.” It tasted like bread in liquid form, but in a pleasant way that grew on you, like a first date that starts awkwardly but improves after appetisers arrive.
The pub was filled with locals—not the pressed-khaki tourists from the Christmas Market, but people who looked like they might argue about football (so, soccer) scores and know each other’s grandparents. An old man in the corner was explaining something passionately to an audience of two, his hands tracing shapes in the air with the precision of someone who has told this particular story many times and has perfected the choreography. Behind the bar, a shelf displayed dozens of local gin varieties and hand-labelled jars of what appeared to be home-infused spirits.
A pair of men in their sixties were playing dominoes near the fireplace with the intense concentration of chess grandmasters, slapping each tile down with a theatrical flourish and occasional exclamations of “Gerrin!” or “You’re having a laugh!” Two middle-aged women at the next table were deeply engaged in what Eva could only assume was top-tier gossip, their conversation punctuated with “I’m not being funny, but …” and hushed “No, she never did!”
The door to the pub opened periodically, letting in gusts of cold air and a chorus of greetings. Each new arrival seemed to warrant a series of nods, nicknames, and inside jokes, creating a symphony of “All right, Dave?” and “Evening, all” and “Look what the cat dragged in!”
While waiting for her food, Eva took in the room. There, right by the fireplace where she sat she noticed a small brass plaque on the wall, partially hidden behind a Christmas wreath. She moved the greenery aside to read:
The Veterans’ Corner Established 1946 by M. Wells “Every soldier needs a home fire”
“See you’ve found our bit of history,” Oliver the bartender said, appearing at her elbow. “That’s from Margaret Wells, she set up a fund after the war. Any veteran could come here for a hot meal and a pint, no questions asked, no payment needed.”
“That’s lovely,” Eva said, tracing the worn letters.
“Still going, too,” Oliver said proudly. “The fund ran dry years ago, but we keep it up. Got three regulars who come in under Margaret’s Promise, we call it. Old Dennis there—” he nodded towards a man nursing a half-pint by the window, “—he’s been coming since the sixties. Says this place saved him when he had nowhere else to go.”
Eva looked at the elderly man, who raised his glass slightly in her direction.
“She understood,” Oliver continued, polishing a glass that was already clean. “Some hurts can’t be fixed with medicine. Sometimes you just need a place where nobody asks questions and the fire’s always lit.”
Oliver handed her the huge platter of fish and chips, sitting on top of a sheet of newspaper print that sucked in the grease. The chips were thick and golden, nothing like the skinny fries from home, and the promised “scraps” turned out to be deliciously crispy fragments of batter scattered across the top like savoury confetti. The mushy peas were exactly what they sounded like—a vibrant green mash that tasted better than their appearance suggested, especially when mixed with the sharp malt vinegar she’d been instructed to apply “generously, love, not like you’re paying for it.”
This was definitely not a meal deal. This was an experience. Florence had been right—again. Damnit, that woman knew what she was talking about.
She was halfway through her meal, lost in the simple pleasure of proper comfort food and mentally composing her apology to Florence for ever thinking a triangle sandwich could compare, when the pub door swung open, letting in a gust of cold air and a man who could only be described as the kind of handsome that belongs in glossy magazines—the type whose eyebrows appear to have their own stylist and whose five o’clock shadow arrives precisely at five, perfectly distributed like it was applied by a mathematical algorithm.
He was tall and lean, with dark hair styled deliberately rather than simply existing. He wore a camel coat over a blue sweater that looked so much like cashmere Eva could practically feel it from across the room. His smile, when he flashed it at the bartender, was the work of orthodontics that someone had paid dearly for.
“Oliver! How are you, mate? Gin and tonic, double lime,” he called, his accent more London than Yorkshire.
“Aidan! As I live and breathe,” the bartender replied. “Haven’t seen you since summer. What brings you up from London?”
At the bar, Charlie straightened, his shoulders tensing visibly. He drained his whiskey in one swallow but didn’t immediately leave.
“Business, unfortunately. Though it’s always good to be home. How’s Nancy?”
“Pregnant. Again.”
“Congratulations! Or condolences. Whichever’s more appropriate.”
Eva watched the exchange with interest, trying not to be obvious about it. The new arrival—Aidan—had the easy charm of someone accustomed to being welcome anywhere. He scanned the pub as Oliver prepared his drink, and his eyes landed first on Charlie, then on Eva.
Recognition, followed by something else—curiosity, maybe—flashed across his face. He collected his drink and, rather than acknowledging Charlie, headed straight for Eva’s table.
“You must be the American staying at Florence’s,” he said, his smile turning up a notch. “I’m Aidan. May I?” He gestured to the empty seat across from her.
God, word does travel fast around here, doesn’t it? Eva thought to herself. Suddenly conscious of having vinegar and grease on her fingers and probably her face, she wiped her hands hurriedly on a napkin. Eva wondered if she had tartar sauce on her chin, but quickly realised that if she did it was far too late to try to save the situation. Nothing like meeting an impossibly polished man while you’re mid-bite into fried food.
“Eva,” she said, making a quick calculation that refusing him would be awkward in a place this small. “Please, sit.”
He slid into the booth with the kind of grace that suggested he’d never awkwardly bumped a table or knocked over a saltshaker in his life. “So, what brings you to our little corner of England? Most Americans stick to London and Edinburgh.”
“I needed a change of scenery,” Eva said, which wasn’t exactly a lie. “York seemed … interesting.”
“Interesting is one word for it,” Aidan said, sipping his drink. “I’d go with ‘stubbornly resistant to the passage of time.’”
“You don’t like it here?”
“I grew up here. It’s complicated.” He gestured around the pub. “Places like this—they’ve got charm, history, atmosphere. But they’re dying. They can’t adapt, can’t compete.”
“With what?” Eva asked.
“Progress. Chain hotels. Modern amenities.” He leaned forward slightly. “Most people say they want authentic experiences until they realise authentic means draughty rooms, weird plumbing, and Wi-Fi that works when it feels like it.”
Eva thought of the Riddle & Quill, with its creaking floors and temperamental radiators. “Some people might find that charming.”
“Some people,” Aidan agreed. “But not enough to keep places like this profitable.”
There was something familiar about him—not his face, but his manner. The easy confidence. The subtle assessment. He reminded her of Richard, or at least what Richard aspired to be.
“So what do you do?” she asked, taking another bite of her fish. She knew this was a classic American line of questioning, but she had no idea what else to say. What do people talk about?
“I’m in real property development. Historic properties, mainly.” He said it casually, but there was a careful watching in his eyes, as if gauging her reaction. “We restore old buildings, convert them into usable spaces for today’s market.”
“Like turning pubs into luxury flats?” Eva couldn’t help asking, thinking of Trinkett’s tour.
Aidan’s smile tightened slightly at the edges. “Sometimes. Though I prefer to think of it as giving these buildings a new life. Better renovated than falling apart, right?”
“I’m not sure everyone would agree,” Eva said. “There’s something irreplaceable about these old places—the community they create, the history they preserve.”
“You sound like someone I used to know,” Aidan said with a dry laugh. “Always going on about ‘preservation’ and ‘heritage.’”
“Maybe they have a point,” Eva said, surprising herself with her conviction. “Places like this are more than just buildings. They’re living history.”
“What about you?” he asked, shifting the conversation. “Tell me about where you’re from and what you do.”
“Nashville born and raised. I work in the music industry.” Eva started off boldly, but faltered slightly. “It’s … different from what people imagine,” she said carefully. “A lot of spreadsheets and marketing meetings. Not as glamorous as it sounds to be honest.”
“But surely you love it? The energy of a big American city? The opportunities?” Aidan leaned forward, genuinely curious. “I’ve always wondered what it would be like to live somewhere so … modern. So forward-thinking.”
Eva found it odd how eager he was to hear about anywhere that wasn’t York. While Charlie had shown her hidden corners of the Minster with reverent attention, Aidan seemed to want to look everywhere but here.
“Nashville has its charms,” she said. “But I’m actually enjoying the history here. The layers of stories within every building.”
Aidan waved a hand dismissively. “Stories don’t pay mortgages. But tell me more about your work. You must travel a lot? See other cities?”
Before Eva could respond, Charlie appeared at their table, Tilly at his heels. His expression was carefully neutral, but Eva caught the tension in his shoulders.
“Aidan,” Charlie said flatly.
“Well, well. Charlie Blackwood.” Aidan’s smile sharpened. “Still haunting the same old places, I see.”
“Some of us appreciate consistency,” Charlie replied. His eyes flicked to Eva. “Not everyone needs to run off to London to prove something.”
“And not everyone needs to hide in the past to avoid facing reality,” Aidan shot back. He turned to Eva with that practiced smile. “Charlie and I were at school together. Back in the day.”
Eva sensed layers of history between them that went beyond a casual acquaintance. The way they stood—Charlie rigid, Aidan lounging—spoke of old rivalries and unresolved tensions.
