The bartender at this pub looks serious, but there’s something gentle and endearing about him, even from afar. He moves with an unfrenzied efficiency and—my God those ropey muscles in his forearms.

There’s a small gaggle of girls hanging out at the bar in front of him, all trying to look tall and thin, messing with their hair and leaning toward him. Of course a guy like this would have a fan club. I’m not surprised at all.

A girl with long chestnut-brown hair says something that makes him smile a little, and I see that he’s got those Heath Ledger dimples. I feel equal parts a heady, crushing admiration for how appealing this guy is and a bizarre, delusional jealousy that I’m not the one charming him.

It’s kind of a crazy feeling, as I’m really not the wow, that guy’s so hot kind of girl. Maybe it’s the fact that, in LA, every hot bartender is constantly scanning the crowd for people worthy of attention—i.e., is there a well-known producer waiting to order a mezcal who might like a slice of orange with that and possibly to discover the next Harry Styles?

I wait my turn at the bar and examine the taps, deciding to have the red ale. But when the horde thins, he still doesn’t come over to me.

Eventually it becomes obvious that he’s ignoring me.

“Excuse me,” I say.

He sighs deeply and then comes over. “What do you want?”

It’s softened slightly by his Irish accent, but the words still startle me. Cool, he’s hot and he already hates me. Maybe people do know Brilliance over here. The show is streaming in other countries, but I don’t know which ones.

I’m suddenly shy. I always get shy when people seem annoyed with me.

“Um … can I please order a beer? And maybe some food if your kitchen is still open?”

“Kitchen’s closed.” He turns from me, taking a glass over to the tap. My stomach gives a familiar, hungry yawn.

I open my mouth to tell him which beer, but he fills the glass with the red ale, which is what I wanted anyway.

“That was a good guess; that’s exactly what I was going to order,” I say with a self-conscious laugh.

“You want it, or don’t you?”

I flush with embarrassment at his brusque tone. “Well, yeah, I do.” I accept it with a tight-lipped, awkward smile. “Thanks—hey, do you have a phone charger back there? By any chance?”

I give an apologetic grimace.

He looks, I’m sure now, irritated with me before holding up the tail end of a white cable.

“Thank you,” I say, then plug my phone in and set it on the counter behind the bar where I can reach it.

“Did you forget to eat today, then?” he asks.

“What?”