Nick didn't know any pubs in Mayfair, but he'd seen one around the corner on the way to the memorial. He gestured to the left. "It's this way, just down the block."
Rosalind nodded and fell into step beside him.
They didn't talk-she seemed lost in her thoughts. A couple minutes later, when he saw the white building come into view, he began to point it out.
She turned to him at the same moment, took his lapel, and reached up on her tiptoes as if she were about to kiss him.
His gaze fixed on her mouth. Lush. Dark pink. Parted. He wanted to taste her so badly.
But he couldn't. She was in mourning, and he was there under false pretences. Damn Summer. "Rosalind-"
Her lips touched his, and his heart stopped.
When it started beating again, it pumped furiously in a way he hadn't felt since the first time he narrowly missed crashing his race car. Unable to help himself, he slid his hand into her hair, needing to hold her.
She hummed, pressing herself against the full length of his body. Her hand eased inside his coat, paused, and then undid a couple of shirt buttons to snake inside. She hummed again as her palm roved up his chest.
Her touch on his skin was electric. He wanted to do the same to her. He wanted to push her hand lower, to show her what she'd done to him.
But they were on the street, and she didn't know who he was, so instead he gently disengaged his mouth from hers.
She drew away slowly, her eyes opening reluctantly. Her lips were red and glossy, and she licked them before she said, "I needed to do that."
"Maybe I should unhand you now."
"It's probably best." But she didn't make a move to withdraw, and it didn't help that he wanted to carry her off to the nearest bed. Drawing on his control, he brushed her hair back. "Maybe we should go inside and get you that drink I promised."
"It's probably best," she echoed with an amused smile. She slid her hand over his torso before she withdrew it and buttoned him up.
Nick took a deep breath and led her to the pub.
She looked up at the bar's sign. "The Red Witch. It's adorable."
To him, it looked like every other pub in London: white building, black trim, lanterns, and dangling pots with overflowing flowers. But if she was happy, that was all that mattered. He held the door open and let her enter first.
"I bet I know who the red witch is," she said, motioning to the tall woman tending bar.
The red-headed bartender smiled at them in welcome. "What can I be getting you?" she asked in an Irish lilt when they reached the bar.
"A shot of rye and a pickleback," Rosalind said.
The Irish woman shook her head. "A what?"
"A pickleback. Pickle juice."
"With whiskey?" he asked incredulously.
"Don't mock it till you try it." Rosalind grinned at the bartender. "How about Jameson's?"
"That I can do." She tucked one of her stray curls behind her ear as she turned to him. "And you, handsome?"
"The same." He set money on the counter.
The bartender poured them generous shots and gave him change. "There you go. My name is Niamh if you need anything else."
Thanking her, they took their whiskies to a private table in the back. "Pickle juice?" he repeated as he pulled out a chair for her.