I wave down the bartender and order that beer, if only to have something to do with my hands. When a seat opens up on the other side of the bar, I grab the just-delivered glass and make a break for it. But when I try to slide triumphantly into the chair, I’m met with something solid. This obstacle knocks the hand carrying my beer, and almost the entire contents slosh out over the side. I jump back enough that most of it lands on my shoes, but some of it splashes onto my blue shirt.

“Son of a bitch,” I curse, loud enough to be heard over the music.

“She’s not,” the obstacle responds. When I look up from studying the wet stain welling up over my torso, I’m met with a man who would probably be tall if he weren’t currently occupying my seat. Everything about him is practically monochromatic. Dark. I think he’s trying to look brooding, but it’s kind of missed the mark. He’s dressed in a black Henley with the sleeves pushed up almost to his elbows and dark jeans. His brown hair is long-ish on the top, and I can tell it would be shaggy if not gelled into submission. Brown eyes peer out behind his dark-rimmed glasses. And an infuriating smirk plays on his full lips. He’s the kind of academic-looking guy I would have swooned over in undergrad until I realized he was only interested in literature and himself, meaning I was only as good to him as how well I supported his pursuits.

In short, he looks like every other self-absorbed asshole I spent two years avoiding in my creative writing graduate program.

“What?” I switch my glass to my dry hand and shake the wet one to rid it of some of the beer. The man in my seat flinches as a few droplets hit his face. I don’t feel bad about that in the least.

“You said, ‘Son of a bitch.’ The implication there is that my mother is a bitch. I said she’s not,” he explains.

“Oh, good,” I mutter to myself and wipe my hand on my jeans. “He’s probably self-absorbed, definitely an asshole, and he’s pedantic, too.”

He smiles widely. “If you really want to hear something pedantic, I’d say you don’t need the words and and too in that sentence. It’s redundant. Good word, though—pedantic.”

I pinch my brows together as my jaw drops. Is this guy serious? “Don’t patronize me,” I tell him.

Tilting his head to the side, he returns my confused look. “I’m not. It’s a good word. Not one you expect to hear”—he looks around—“here.”