Tread

May 31

"I've officially exceeded my alcohol budget... and limit," I tell my friend over the rim of my beer. "Remind me of that tomorrow. Okay, Em?"

She laughs and punches my shoulder. "Dude, I'm drunker than you! Tell Kate."

We turn to Kate, but she's making googly eyes at Ivan. Not one week in and our study abroad group has coupled up. Em and I are the only single ladies, and we loudly declare it every chance we get. The second night in Dublin we made a pact to each make out with an Irish dude before we leave. Neither of us has done it yet, but there are still three weeks left.

It's one of the reasons we're out right now at The Kid and Hawk. There are no shortage of sexy Irishmen in this college bar, and I've very obviously been looking around for Mr. Friendly Lips since my third or fourth—I glance down at the glasses lined up in front of me on the table—fifth pint.

"Him." Em points to a rail-thin, red-bearded guy at the other end of the bar. He sees her and flashes a grin before ducking his head and grabbing his beer.

"That's your type."

"Okay. What's yours?"

"Intelligent," I slur. "You know I'm a sapiosexual."

"That's not a real thing."

I shrug and look around the bar again. The men bleed together: dark t-shirts, brown hair, and jeans. The only spot of color is a pale skinned, blonde guy chatting up a red-haired woman at the bar. I touch my curls, remembering the Fire Engine Red I had for over a year before I dyed it back to sable brown. The color hurt my job chances out of college. And unless a magical fairy popped up and decided to pay off my student debt, I needed a job.

I blink, bringing the bar back into focus, and notice Blondie is looking at me. He's got the funniest expression on his face. That's when I realize I'm yelling out loud: "He's hot! I'd totally fuck him."

A smile transforms his face as I scramble to shut my stupid drunk lips. Muttering something to the redhead, he moves away from the bar toward me. I turn around in the stool and nearly fall on my ass before Em catches me, laughing her head off. "Rai, are you okay?"

"I'm—"

"Get you a glass of water?" A sing song voice says behind me, catching our table's attention. Ivan and Kate look up, and Em peers around me, lips forming an O. I look up and over my shoulder at the guy. Sure enough it's Blondie.

His eyes are blue and his hair looks natural. There's no way he's Irish. Scandinavian definitely. Maybe Swedish?

"What?"

"Water," he repeats, pointing out the lack of any aqua on the table. There are, however, ten pint glasses with varying degrees of empty. "Do you need some?"

I peek at his clothes, wondering if he's a server. What kind of pick-up line is 'let me get you water?' He's wearing scuffed black boots, dark jeans, and a green and white striped sweater. The outfit doesn't scream waiter, so I assume he is just a Good Samaritan who heard my drunken ramblings and decided I needed to sober up quick.

"Yeah. Water would be great." I make a move off the stool and the room tips precariously.

"Careful there." His hands are on my shoulders, eyes looking straight into mine. "Why don't you sit and I'll get it?"

"Swedish?" The word bursts out before I can shut my mouth.

His lips quirk. "Finnish. Wait here."

Then he's gone, and I'm looking at my friends to confirm the conversation wasn't a hallucination. Em stares back for a heartbeat before bursting out laughing. Glasses bounce across the table. "I think your alcohol budget's safe. Got a feeling I'll be giving you 50 euros."