“We don’t have that here. All of our German beers are listed—”
“How do you know it’s German?” He toyed with me.
“Well, I just assumed since you were German that the beer you asked for was German as well.”
“How do you know I’m German?”
“Your accent.”
“You assume a lot of things, Emmeline. Don’t you? Perhaps you shouldn’t be so quick in your assumptions.”
What the hell was his problem? There was no way in hell I could pretend to even like this guy, and judging by his self-important attitude, it wasn’t like I would even be afforded the opportunity to. Bridgette was going to have to go at it alone on this.
“You’re correct on one point, Emmeline.”
“My name is Emme!” I snapped.
He picked up my license still sitting on the bar and studied it keenly. “That is not what your identification says.”
“Emmeline is my proper name. My friends call me Emme.”
Even that stomach flipping smile that had spread across his face wasn’t making up for his arrogance. Look away from the dimples, Em. This guy is an ass!
“Well, since I’m always proper, and I’m not your friend...I call you Emmeline.”
My impatience and anger were escalating at an equal pace. “Okay, fine, since this will be the last time we ever speak, then you can call me whatever you want. Thank you for returning my license, and if there isn’t anything I can get you to drink, then have a nice night.”
His hand covered mine as I went to snatch my license from the bar. “There you go making those assumption again.” There was a spark to his eyes, hinting at amusement over my flustered state.
“Okay…and do tell, what are those assumptions I seem to be making?”
“The beer I requested is Belgian, not German.”
“Well, forgive me. I’ll make a mental note of that, in case another pompous German or whatever it is you are comes in and requests it.” I wanted to walk away and be done with the entire conversation, but his hand was still covering mine with a tightening grip.
