“Thank you.” I smiled.

“Sure! No problem,” he said happily.

“This bar is beautiful.” He rubbed his hands across the mahogany rail as he returned to his seat. “You don’t see craftsmanship like this anymore. The scrolling and detail is magnificent.”

“My grandfather built it.” I beamed. “Every time I look at it, it makes me smile. He put so much of himself into this place. All this woodwork you see was done by his hands. The booths, the wainscoting, he built it all.”

Ryan stood up and walked toward the enormous wooden pillar that spanned from floor to ceiling.

“Your grandfather was a talented man.” His fingers were busy tracing the intricate patterns carved in the dark oak post. “I really like the exposed red brick too. This place reminds me of a pub I was in once when I filmed in Ireland. Has that authentic feel to it, you know?”

“Thanks!” I replied. His compliment seemed very genuine and made me smile. “I always thought this place had that old-world charm too.”

His gaze rolled over to the far end of the pub. “That’s a pretty big stage. You have bands play here?”

“Yeah, just about every Friday and Saturday night. I’ve been thinking about doing open-mic nights during the week too.”

Ryan was distracted. “Yamaha,” he said in an amusing voice, drifting his fingers down the keys. “Your piano?”

“Yes.” I nodded. For some unknown reason I followed him over to the stage. “That’s my baby grand. It was a birthday gift from my grandfather.”

“Cool. Looks like you have a pretty impressive sound system. Lighting and everything.” His hand pointed and waved in the air.

Ryan’s eyes flickered over to the opposite wall and he strolled away to investigate another part of the pub. Something else had captured his attention.

“What do you say to a game of pool?” he asked, raising an eyebrow at me as he stood in the brick archway that led into the poolroom.

“You want to shoot pool – with me?” I actually looked over my shoulder to see if he was talking to someone else, even though I knew full well there was no one else here.

“Sure! That is if you’re up to it. I haven’t been able to play in a long time.” His voice trailed, a hint of sadness etched his words.

I shook my head, wondering why he would want to spend any more time here than he had to. Maybe he is just being polite?

“I don’t know,” I whispered.

“Come on, please? Just one game. I’ll even let you win.”

“Why, don’t you think I can beat you on my own?” Does he think all girls suck at shooting pool or is he just teasing me?

“Well, I don’t know. Are you really good? You’ll probably kick my butt,” he conceded. “But I think I’ll take my chances. Come on, one game. I just need to get my mind on something else.”

“Okay, one game.” I nodded and proceeded to pick out a pool stick. He was rather irresistible when he pleaded like that.

“I’ll rack, you can break,” Ryan said, placing the billiard balls in the wooden triangle.

I leaned over the table in my breaking stance and cracked the stick into the cue ball, pocketing a striped ball.

“Huh, I think I’m in trouble!” He chuckled.

I made the next shot, but missed the third. It was his turn.

“So you’re a lefty?” he asked while he chalked the tip of his pool stick.

“No, not really. I’m ambidextrous,” I shyly admitted.

“Ambidextrous?” He smiled. “Very interesting.”

His reaction made me feel like I had to explain. “I’m mostly right-handed, but I shoot pool and I throw with my left.”

“I tried to write with my left hand once when I had my right arm in a sling, but it was nothing but scribble. Can you write with your left hand?” He motioned as if he was writing on paper.

“Yeah, but it feels awkward and I can only print. I think I would have been a lefty, but I remember the teachers in grade school forcing me to use my right hand instead. I was always slightly confused with which scissors to use.”

He smiled at me again. After all these years, he was the first guy who ever noticed that about me.

“Sometimes I wish I could write with both of my hands. It would probably make autograph signing more tolerable.” He smirked.

Ryan tried to make a bank shot, but missed. His beer glass was almost empty so I quickly walked over to the bar and tapped a pitcher of beer and got a glass for myself. I always shot pool better when I was relaxed, and I was anything but relaxed at this moment.

“May I ask what you did to get your arm in a sling?” I glanced up at him while lining up for my next shot.

He smiled innocently and laughed. “It’s a funny story, actually.”

“I like funny stories.” I shrugged a bit.

“Ahh, when I was around nine years old - my brother Nick was eleven, we had this bright idea to make a go-cart. We super-glued one of my mom’s laundry baskets to a skateboard and a…”

I couldn’t help but make a silly face at him.

“Wait, it gets better,” he said with a laugh. “At first we just tied the basket to the back of my brother’s bicycle and I, of course, got to ride in the back. But we couldn’t get up enough speed. So we rolled the basket to the top of 12th Street hill. I climbed in and Nick gave me a shove. Did you know that you can’t steer a laundry basket on a skateboard?”

I could picture him as a kid careening down a hill in a laundry basket. I started to laugh.

“That’s how I got this scar right here.” Ryan twisted his right arm to show me the mark on his elbow.

“Twenty stitches.” He grinned proudly.

I shook my head and smiled, imagining him being an adventurous little daredevil when he was young.

“Hey, it sounded like a good idea at the time!”

I noticed another scar across his right forearm. “How did you get that one?” I pointed to the mark in question.

“Ahh, fishing accident.” He laughed. “Nick again. Caught me with a hook once while we were fishing with our dad. I yelled, he yanked, and I got more stitches. To this day I stay far away from him when we’re fishing. What about you?” he asked. “Got any good scar stories?”

“I have to think about that one for a minute. Wait, I have one - on my right knee.”

“Well you know you have to show it to me now,” he teased.