Francesca is bundled into a corner of the pub, picked from a number of others in the sleepy town. There is no shortage of them to be found, but when she'd first entered the establishment, she'd noted the quiet of it, cozy even. And nobody had tried to hit on her.
So she came back, and then again.
Tucked into her book, the rest of the world has been left behind. This is interrupted only when a shadow casts over her table, the distinguished face of what she's gleaned to be the pub owner peering down at her. She sets a glass down, its contents a familiar dark liquid.
"From the gentleman over yonder."
The older woman jerks her head toward the person in question. She glances over, brow furrowed with surprise, but when he nods at her, holding his own glass, Francesca nods back in acknowledgment.
He's nice to look at. Older, probably in his late forties or fifties. The stripes of grey in his hair give that away. His face has something memorable about it. Ruggedly handsome, enhanced by a scar or two.
She keeps peeking at him across her book. Sometimes catches his gaze, only to look away. Eventually, after putting her belongings away into her bag, she stops at his table on her way toward the door. Waits until he looks up at her, wetting her lips and trying to maintain eye contact. ]
I just wanted to say thank you. Erm. For the whiskey.
[It's certainly not something Nate does often. The pub owner makes him clarify twice before she does it.
He doesn't expect anything to come of it, and it's not why he did it. She's already got his attention with the book, so he'd enjoy it very much if for the first time ever, buying drink worked for someone. It's also because he hasn't seen her before, she looks a touch nervous and it's unusual to see someone her age reading a book in a pub. If a drink flatters her for a second, it seems worth it.
He feels like he feels her eyes on him, but he's trying hard not to turn.
A such, he's visibly surprised when she approaches. His brow arches, but he doesn't pause from sipping his drink even when he can see she's stopping by.]
Don't mention it. [He gives his shoulders a heavy shrug.]
Like to see someone reading an actual book. [He cocks his head toward her bag.]
[ American. His accent catches her off guard. She cants her head back at him before she can help it, nerves bleeding into visible intrigue. It's not terribly uncommon, tourism and all, but it does make her wonder what he's doing so far north.
She's staring, she realizes, and quickly averts her eyes down at her bag and the book sticking out of the top. A Farewell to Arms. Now she can't piece together whether it was a segue to get her attention, or simply an appreciation of literature.
This is the moment she could easily step away and through the door.
She doesn't. ]
Oh. Yes. My sister -- she's studying English at Oxford -- let me borrow it. [ She stops, inwardly cringing. She doesn't know why she elaborated about her sister, he probably doesn't care about any of that.
[ Dry, yes. But she knows all about dry humor, it's her specialty. A smile unfurls over her face, slow and appreciative.
It sounds like an offer for her to sit, that purposeful question, but Francesca is too polite to do so without a proper invitation. So she'll continue to stand, but she puts her hands on the back of the chair across from him. ]
London. England. [ She doesn't clarify exactly where in London, because that would give too much away about her. The posh accent can at least be written off. ]
Home's here. From Texas, mostly. [Which is a deliberately vague answer. Partly because he's private and partly because he wants to lure her in a little.]
You can sit if you want. [He nods at the empty seat in front of him.]
Her stomach flips at the directness of the offer. She wavers, reminding herself it doesn't necessarily stipulate anything and unsure if that's a comfort or disappointment, but takes the invitation and sits down.
She tucks a strand of hair behind the shell of her ear. Until now, he'd been forced to look up at her and that had made her feel a degree of removed. Now, they're eye level.
[It's certainly nice for Nate to have her closer. He's surprised to have captivated her this much, but for once he's enjoying having company. So much so that he offers her a small smile.]
Ten years, give or take. Got on the plane, got a house here, never went back. [He picks up the rim of his glass with his fingers, giving it a gentle shake.]
[ Francesca finds small talk exhausting, she isn't a social butterfly like many of her siblings, so she's glad that the conversation has found its way so quickly out of those waters.
She's charmed by the smile. She even manages one in return. Gives a nod. ]
Whatever you're having, please. [ She can hold her liquor, thank you.
His answer is so interesting. She wants to ask so many questions already. She'll have to ease them out. ] Why Scotland? [ Pause. Teases: ] Loch Ness Monster? You do look the type.
The ball in the ... court. Right. [ She repeats him, almost dumbly.
Oh. Okay. She hadn't misread the signs.
Her cheeks carry a hint of pink now. She takes a sip of her whiskey to settle her nerves, looking away from him to gather her thoughts. ]
I'm sure you can tell that I don't usually come to places like this. [ Or talk to people like him. Men his age. She peeks at him, then lets her gaze linger, running over his jaw, the cut of his nose. He's even more attractive up close.
She didn't realize she liked older men at all until this moment. ]
Anyway. My name is Francesca. Most people call me Fran. Or Frannie. I mean. You don't have to feel obligated. Francesca is good. Perfectly fine.
You didn't look uncomfortable, hence not wanting to disturb you. [He assures her. He feels like she's taking him in a little, which he feels more than accepting of. He's had plenty of time to admire her soft features, but it's her eyes that give him the most trouble. They're so big and bright, it's both hard to look away and hard to look directly at them.]
Nathan. Nate is fine. Natie isn't. [He is trying terribly hard not to tease her for babbling, but he's fascinated by how nervous she seems. Is he making her nervous?]
[ Same hat. She's having the same conundrum, only it's that his eyes are so rich and so intense, she feels like she's being dissected. Some kind of rare specimen.
If she could kick herself, she would. ]
I took a year off between my studies. Gap year. So here I am. And I always wanted to come to Scotland, at least for longer than the trips I took here as a child. [ Another sip. She's talking so much. Truly not like herself. ]
I don't think a more beautiful place can be found on earth.
[She is a rare specimen, so it's hard not to analyse her.]
I agree, and I've been around. [Again, kind of a vague answer but he's far more interested in hearing about her. And talking to her is nice. Easy, actually, but it isn't strictly why he wanted her attention.]
Is it too cliche if I say I haven't seen a more beautiful woman, either? I've been trying to think of a way to work that in since you came over.
[It isn't alarming to Nate that she doesn't fawn at the compliment, but she's also not just politely accepting it in an uncomfortable way. Makes him curious.
Particularly when coupled with the question.]
Not anymore. Not for a long time.
[He assumes she's only asking because he's old, so.]
[ Unmarried. A divorcee. That's good. Though, he could lie if he was just looking to get lucky, she's not that naive about men, but she suspects that isn't the case. She gets the impression, however wrong she could be, that he wouldn't do that.
It's a fair rebuttal, but one that makes her lips twitch with a private joke. She stretches out her left hand, the ring finger pointedly bare, and smiles shyly at him. ]
Always the bridesmaid, never the bride. [ Does that sound pathetic? Oh God. She adds: ] Mostly because I have seven siblings and four of them are married.
[It becomes very difficult not to look perpetually amused by her, but he decides to try meet her energy at least a little. When she extends her fingers to show him, he takes her hand and gently guides it toward himself so he can have a better look. Like he needs to inspect, with a soft hum.]
You look young. What's the rush? [He doesn't want to, but he lets go of her and pulls back.]
[It's not exactly a shocking revelation for Nate. He doesn't necessarily skew younger when he dates, but he knows when he's too old for someone. But here he is.]
Fifty-two. [She doesn't ask but he offers, for transparency.]
Sure you've got better things to do than sit here and talk to me.
[It's deliberately self-deprecating, but he feels she's owed an out after the revelation. If only because he'd really like to see her turn it down.]
[ Fifty-two. She doesn't look surprised, really, but the number does weigh on her some. That would be about the age of her father, if he was still alive.
It makes her wonder if this is immoral or just ... weird. She knows very few women that date so much older. God knows the looks they got.
She's getting ahead of herself now. It's just a drink.
She stares right at him for the comment, something of a challenge in her expression. She takes another sip of her whiskey. ]
Just my luck. [And he smiles broadly, but tries to mask it by taking a drink. He didn't expect to get this far, now he has to think about how far he wants to get.]
I'd invite you back to mine, but I live pretty far out. Lots of wood, big lake. Think you'd worry I was trying to kill you.
[Which is such a weird thought to plant, but he doesn't seem concerned.]
[ Francesca blinks at him. That's not unsettling or anything.
But it's more so the fact he's all but asked her over to his house, and the ripe implications therein. The thought writhes through her stomach, turns her hands clammy. He doesn't know -- of course he wouldn't know.
That she never does anything like this. Has never done anything of the nature he's all but suggested. For a moment, she thinks of bolting. He has the impression she's far more experienced than she actually is, and why shouldn't he? She'd approached him. Not the other way around. ]
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sundown2025-04-27 08:43 pm
no subject
Francesca is bundled into a corner of the pub, picked from a number of others in the sleepy town. There is no shortage of them to be found, but when she'd first entered the establishment, she'd noted the quiet of it, cozy even. And nobody had tried to hit on her.
So she came back, and then again.
Tucked into her book, the rest of the world has been left behind. This is interrupted only when a shadow casts over her table, the distinguished face of what she's gleaned to be the pub owner peering down at her. She sets a glass down, its contents a familiar dark liquid.
"From the gentleman over yonder."
The older woman jerks her head toward the person in question. She glances over, brow furrowed with surprise, but when he nods at her, holding his own glass, Francesca nods back in acknowledgment.
He's nice to look at. Older, probably in his late forties or fifties. The stripes of grey in his hair give that away. His face has something memorable about it. Ruggedly handsome, enhanced by a scar or two.
She keeps peeking at him across her book. Sometimes catches his gaze, only to look away. Eventually, after putting her belongings away into her bag, she stops at his table on her way toward the door. Waits until he looks up at her, wetting her lips and trying to maintain eye contact. ]
I just wanted to say thank you. Erm. For the whiskey.
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He doesn't expect anything to come of it, and it's not why he did it. She's already got his attention with the book, so he'd enjoy it very much if for the first time ever, buying drink worked for someone. It's also because he hasn't seen her before, she looks a touch nervous and it's unusual to see someone her age reading a book in a pub. If a drink flatters her for a second, it seems worth it.
He feels like he feels her eyes on him, but he's trying hard not to turn.
A such, he's visibly surprised when she approaches. His brow arches, but he doesn't pause from sipping his drink even when he can see she's stopping by.]
Don't mention it. [He gives his shoulders a heavy shrug.]
Like to see someone reading an actual book. [He cocks his head toward her bag.]
Good one, too.
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She's staring, she realizes, and quickly averts her eyes down at her bag and the book sticking out of the top. A Farewell to Arms. Now she can't piece together whether it was a segue to get her attention, or simply an appreciation of literature.
This is the moment she could easily step away and through the door.
She doesn't. ]
Oh. Yes. My sister -- she's studying English at Oxford -- let me borrow it. [ She stops, inwardly cringing. She doesn't know why she elaborated about her sister, he probably doesn't care about any of that.
Lamely: ] ... it is very good.
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If she's going to loiter, he's going to use the opportunity he bought with a drink.]
Where's home for you? No offence but, it's easy to hear when someone's not local.
[It's dry, but he has to be joking since he doesn't sound remotely Scottish.]
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It sounds like an offer for her to sit, that purposeful question, but Francesca is too polite to do so without a proper invitation. So she'll continue to stand, but she puts her hands on the back of the chair across from him. ]
London. England. [ She doesn't clarify exactly where in London, because that would give too much away about her. The posh accent can at least be written off. ]
And yourself? I can't place the accent.
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You can sit if you want. [He nods at the empty seat in front of him.]
Unless you've got somewhere to be.
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Her stomach flips at the directness of the offer. She wavers, reminding herself it doesn't necessarily stipulate anything and unsure if that's a comfort or disappointment, but takes the invitation and sits down.
She tucks a strand of hair behind the shell of her ear. Until now, he'd been forced to look up at her and that had made her feel a degree of removed. Now, they're eye level.
There's a momentary silence. Then: ]
Have you lived here long?
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Ten years, give or take. Got on the plane, got a house here, never went back. [He picks up the rim of his glass with his fingers, giving it a gentle shake.]
Would you like another drink?
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She's charmed by the smile. She even manages one in return. Gives a nod. ]
Whatever you're having, please. [ She can hold her liquor, thank you.
His answer is so interesting. She wants to ask so many questions already. She'll have to ease them out. ] Why Scotland? [ Pause. Teases: ] Loch Ness Monster? You do look the type.
no subject
Her question also catches him off-guard and he scoffs out a confused laugh.]
I look like a conspiracy theorist? Is it the accent? [The pub owner sets their drinks down, not loitering before moving away.]
I like it here. People mind their business.
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( She's really awful at it. She always has been. )
She picks up the glass closest to her, holding it behind her hands and enjoying the cold sweating off. ]
Except when somebody is reading an exceptional piece of literature, of course. [ An air of complete seriousness as she speaks. ]
I like the quiet best. I find it soothing.
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So do I, usually. Pub's an interesting place for quiet, but.. [Cable gives his shoulders a small shrug.]
I figured if I put the ball in your court, you could choose if you wanted to stay quiet.
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Oh. Okay. She hadn't misread the signs.
Her cheeks carry a hint of pink now. She takes a sip of her whiskey to settle her nerves, looking away from him to gather her thoughts. ]
I'm sure you can tell that I don't usually come to places like this. [ Or talk to people like him. Men his age. She peeks at him, then lets her gaze linger, running over his jaw, the cut of his nose. He's even more attractive up close.
She didn't realize she liked older men at all until this moment. ]
Anyway. My name is Francesca. Most people call me Fran. Or Frannie. I mean. You don't have to feel obligated. Francesca is good. Perfectly fine.
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Nathan. Nate is fine. Natie isn't. [He is trying terribly hard not to tease her for babbling, but he's fascinated by how nervous she seems. Is he making her nervous?]
What inspired the change?
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If she could kick herself, she would. ]
I took a year off between my studies. Gap year. So here I am. And I always wanted to come to Scotland, at least for longer than the trips I took here as a child. [ Another sip. She's talking so much. Truly not like herself. ]
I don't think a more beautiful place can be found on earth.
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I agree, and I've been around. [Again, kind of a vague answer but he's far more interested in hearing about her. And talking to her is nice. Easy, actually, but it isn't strictly why he wanted her attention.]
Is it too cliche if I say I haven't seen a more beautiful woman, either? I've been trying to think of a way to work that in since you came over.
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She starts to smile, more automatic than authentic, but it falls, and she simply looks at him. Silently. Thoughtfully. ]
No. Not too cliche.
[ She smiles then, mostly to herself.
Looking down at her lap: ] So you're ... not married?
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Particularly when coupled with the question.]
Not anymore. Not for a long time.
[He assumes she's only asking because he's old, so.]
Are you?
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It's a fair rebuttal, but one that makes her lips twitch with a private joke. She stretches out her left hand, the ring finger pointedly bare, and smiles shyly at him. ]
Always the bridesmaid, never the bride. [ Does that sound pathetic? Oh God. She adds: ] Mostly because I have seven siblings and four of them are married.
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You look young. What's the rush? [He doesn't want to, but he lets go of her and pulls back.]
How old are you?
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Ah. The question. This could make or break things. She swallows, but answers honestly. ]
Twenty-three.
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Fifty-two. [She doesn't ask but he offers, for transparency.]
Sure you've got better things to do than sit here and talk to me.
[It's deliberately self-deprecating, but he feels she's owed an out after the revelation. If only because he'd really like to see her turn it down.]
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It makes her wonder if this is immoral or just ... weird. She knows very few women that date so much older. God knows the looks they got.
She's getting ahead of herself now. It's just a drink.
She stares right at him for the comment, something of a challenge in her expression. She takes another sip of her whiskey. ]
No. I really don't.
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I'd invite you back to mine, but I live pretty far out. Lots of wood, big lake. Think you'd worry I was trying to kill you.
[Which is such a weird thought to plant, but he doesn't seem concerned.]
But it's nice out there. Private. Quiet.
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But it's more so the fact he's all but asked her over to his house, and the ripe implications therein. The thought writhes through her stomach, turns her hands clammy. He doesn't know -- of course he wouldn't know.
That she never does anything like this. Has never done anything of the nature he's all but suggested. For a moment, she thinks of bolting. He has the impression she's far more experienced than she actually is, and why shouldn't he? She'd approached him. Not the other way around. ]
Is it?
[ Her mouth is dry after she says it. ]
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