He paused for a moment as the door shut behind him, and he scanned the bar. He seemed to exhale, as though glad to have arrived then his attention settled on her, sat in her usual spot.

For a moment, it was as if time stood still.

Their gazes connected.

Megan’s heart did a little flip. There was just something about him. His handsome face always wore such a serious expression. She wondered what it took to make him smile, really smile. God, she’d love to see that.

She picked up her drink and tore her focus from him, looking instead at the pianist who was singing a slow song about a sinking boat. What was the point in wondering about his smile? He was spoken for. He smiled for someone else now.

But in her peripheral vision she could still see him—she couldn’t help but surreptitiously watch him.

He walked to the bar and ordered a bottle of beer, pulling his wallet from his pocket.

There was a clatter and a bang.

Megan looked Hot Guy’s way again. The barman was frantically trying to stop a bottle of beer from rolling off the wooden surface and onto the floor. A gush of froth sprayed and landed on Hot Guy’s arm.

“I’m really sorry,” the barman said, finally catching the stray bottle and righting it. “Really sorry, sir.”

“It’s okay.” Hot Guy reached for some napkins and wiped his jacket. “No harm done.”

“Are you sure? Is your jacket okay?” The barman appeared genuinely worried and glanced at another member of staff—his boss, perhaps.

“It’s only a jacket, mate, don’t worry about it.” Hot Guy smiled, just a little.

Ah, so that’s what he looked like when he wasn’t deadly serious. His full lips stretched and small creases darted from the corners of his eyes. It wasn’t a full on grin, but it was a genuine smile.

“We can get it dry-cleaned, sir.”

“That really won’t be necessary, I’m sure it’s had beer on it in the past and lived to tell the tale.”

The barman seemed to sag with relief and reached for another beer then popped the lid.

Megan thought of how Dylan had once totally over-reacted when a waiter had spilled sauce on him when they’d been out for dinner. He’d created a terrible scene in the restaurant and demanded to see the manager. He’d had his entire suit dry-cleaned at the restaurant’s expense, even though it was only a very small mark on the sleeve that would have likely sponged out. Megan had sat through the whole embarrassing incident poking at her Dover sole and wishing she were invisible.

“On the house,” the barman said.

“No seriously, it’s all good,” Hot Guy said, placing cash on the bar. He turned to Megan.