The First Impression

Erica

I smoothed down my “Team Bride” sash and herded our giggling group through the entrance of The Tipsy Sailor. Seattle’s infamous drizzle had turned my carefully straightened hair into what I’m sure resembled a poodle’s nightmare.

“Celina, honey, are you sure about this place?” I asked, eyeing the nautical-themed dive bar with its slightly crooked ship’s wheel mounted on the wall.

“It’s perfect!” My best friend squealed, her tiara slightly askew. “It’s so... so...”

“Crusty?” I supplied helpfully.

“Authentic!” She corrected, wobbling slightly in her heels.

That’s when I heard it. A British accent cutting through the ambient bar noise, all proper.

“I said two fingers of gin, mate. That’s clearly one and a half at best. Did they not teach proper measurements at bartending school, or is this some sort of colonial rebellion?”

I turned to locate Mr. Proper Pants and found myself face-to-face with possibly the most attractive man I’d ever seen, who was being a complete pain in the bartender’s ass. Tall and dark-haired, he had an impressive chiseled jawline that almost took my breath away. But apparently, he had the personality of a wet sock.

“Excuse me,” I called out, squeezing in next to him. “Some of us would like to order this century.”

He turned, fixing me with steel-blue eyes. “Some of us would like a proper drink first.”

“Some of us should learn to read the room. This is a dive bar, not Buckingham Palace.”

“Clearly.” His gaze swept over my sash, one eyebrow arching. “Team Bride? How devastatingly original.”

“Says the man measuring gin with his fingers. What are you, a liquid mathematician?”

He muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “Americans” before grabbing his apparently subpar gin and stalking off. I turned to the relieved-looking bartender and flashed my most winning smile.

“Hi! Sorry about Mr. Downton Abbey there. Can I get six pink cosmos and one virgin daiquiri for our designated driver?” I pulled out my credit card and leaned in conspiratorially. “And maybe make those cosmos a little stronger than usual? We’re celebrating our bride-to-be!”

Minutes later, I carefully balanced the drink-laden tray back to our table, where Celina and the girls were already planning their karaoke selections.

“Oh my God!” Celina shrieked. “Alessi?”

I whipped around to see my best friend launching herself at her fiancé, who was surrounded by his own posse of slightly drunk groomsmen. That’s when it hit me. This wasn’t just any annoying Brit. This was Antoni MacAuley, the best man.

Perfect. Just perfect.

“Baby!” Alessi caught Celina mid-launch, nearly toppling backwards into his groomsmen. “What are you doing here?”

“What am I doing here? What are you doing here?” Celina giggled, adjusting her now completely sideways tiara. “This was supposed to be my super-secret bachelorette location!”

“Super-secret? Well, I guess we have similar taste…” Alessi grinned, looking around the bar.

As they kissed, I caught Antoni rolling his eyes and couldn’t help myself. “Problem, Mr. Fingers?”

“Just enjoying this most serendipitous moment,” he drawled. “Of all the gin joints in all of Seattle...”

“Did you seriously just quote Casablanca at me?”

“Would you have preferred a Sound of Music reference? The hills are alive with the sound of improper drink measurements?”

Before I could respond with what would have been an absolutely devastating comeback, Celina clapped her hands together. “This is perfect! We should totally combine parties! Alessi, baby, tell them it’s perfect!”

“It’s perfect,” Alessi dutifully repeated, still holding her like she might float away.

“Absolutely not,” Antoni and I said in unison, then glared at each other.

“See?” Celina beamed. “You’re already in sync! Now, who’s ready for karaoke?”

The groan that escaped Antoni’s throat was almost as pained as my own, and I had a sinking feeling this was just the beginning of a very long night.

“Karaoke time!” Someone yelled, and before I could protest, Celina was shoving me toward the small stage.

“My maid of honor has the voice of an angel!” she announced proudly.

“When the angel is falling from heaven, perhaps,” Antoni muttered, loud enough for me to hear.

I grabbed the microphone. “Sweet Caroline” started playing, and I locked eyes with Mr. Proper Pants. Game on.

“Where it began,” I started, deliberately letting my voice crack. Antoni winced. Perfect. “I can’t begin to knowing...”

But then something strange happened. As I hit the chorus, a rich baritone voice joined in from the crowd.

“Sweet Caroline...” Antoni was singing. Actually singing. And he was... good?

“BAH BAH BAH!” The entire bar joined in.

I couldn’t help but grin, and to my surprise, he smiled back. A real smile. For a moment, we were in sync, our voices blending perfectly.

“Good times never seemed so good...”

“So good, so good, so good!” The crowd roared.

As I finished the song, Antoni raised his glass to me.

“Not bad for a colonial,” he said as I passed him on my way back to the bar.

“Not bad for a snob,” I replied, bumping his shoulder with mine.

The night was young, and something told me it was about to get very interesting.

“You know,” Antoni said, sliding onto the barstool next to me, “that was actually decent. For an American song.”

I rolled my eyes, taking a sip of my cocktail. “Oh, I’m sorry, would you have preferred ‘God Save the Queen’?”

“That’s only for special occasions. Like when we’re oppressing colonies.” His lips twitched, and I realized he was actually making a joke.

“Did you just attempt humor? Should I alert the British Embassy?”

He chuckled, and the sound did something weird to my stomach. Must’ve been the alcohol.

“I’ll have you know I’m quite funny. It just doesn’t translate well across the pond.”

“Is that what they told you to make you feel better?” I turned to face him fully, noticing how the bar lights caught the shine in his eyes.

“You wound me, Miss Marcilly.” He placed a hand over his heart dramatically. “And here I was, about to compliment your muffled singing abilities.”

“Says the man who pronounces ‘schedule’ like he’s having a sneezing fit.”

He leaned closer, and suddenly the air felt thicker. “You know what I think?”

“That tea should be its own food group?”

“I think,” he continued, his voice dropping lower, “you’re not nearly as annoying as I wanted you to be.”

“Wow, with charm like that, how are you still single?”

“Who says I’m single?”

I raised an eyebrow. “Because Celina told me so. And also the way you’ve been looking at me for the past ten minutes.”

The space between us seemed to shrink. His eyes dropped to my lips, and I found myself leaning in...

“SURPRISE!”

The booming voice made us both jump. I turned to see two police officers–a man and a woman–entering the bar. Except their uniforms looked suspiciously shiny, and one of them was wearing what appeared to be breakaway pants.

“Oh no,” Antoni muttered.

“Oh yes,” I groaned.

The strippers had arrived.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the male stripper announced, ripping off his fake police shirt in one smooth motion, “someone’s been very naughty!”

I watched in horror as Celina’s eyes narrowed at the female officer now giving Alessi a very personal pat-down.

“That wasn’t in the wedding budget,” Celina said in that scary-calm voice I knew too well.

Antoni leaned close to my ear. “Should we be concerned?”

“Remember the Hindenburg? Less destructive than what’s about to happen.”

Right on cue, Celina stood up, wobbling slightly in her “Bride-to-Be” heels. “Excuse me, Officer Sparkles, but could you maybe not grind on my fiancé?”

The female stripper, clearly not reading the room, winked. “Don’t worry, honey, there’s plenty of him to go around.”

“Oh bloody hell,” Antoni muttered.

I grabbed his arm. “Quick, intervention time. You grab Alessi, I’ll handle Celina.”

“Why do you get the easier job?”

“Because I’ve seen Celina take down a linebacker at a Black Friday sale. Move!”

We split up, but not before Celina had already launched herself toward the stripper, tiara flying. I caught her mid-leap, which was like trying to catch an angry cat in a tornado.

“Let me at her!” Celina shrieked. “I’ll show her what a Seattle girl can do!”

“Celina, honey, remember your breathing exercises!” I struggled to maintain my grip. “Think about the wedding photos! You can’t have a mug shot as your profile picture!”

Meanwhile, Antoni had managed to extract Alessi from the stripper sandwich, but not before getting a face full of body glitter in the process. He looked like a grumpy disco ball.

“This is precisely why I hate American parties,” he complained, trying to wipe the glitter off his face but only succeeding in spreading it around more.

“Oh, because British bachelor parties are so sophisticated?” I shot back, still wrestling with Celina. “What do you do, sit around drinking tea and discussing the weather?”

“At least we don’t have to body-block the bride from assaulting the entertainment!”

We ended up pressed against each other, creating a human barrier between the wedding couple and the very confused strippers. Antoni’s chest was solid against my back, his arms bracketing mine as we contained our respective best friends.

“You’ve got glitter in your hair,” he murmured close to my ear.

“You’ve got glitter everywhere,” I replied, trying to ignore how well we fit together. “It’s actually an improvement.”

“You better watch it.”

“Feeling’s mutual, Sparkle Boy.”

But neither of us moved away.

After the Great Stripper Incident of 2024, we managed to calm everyone down with shots of water (telling Celina it was vodka) and relocating both strippers to another bachelor party in another area of the bar that seemed much more appreciative of their talents.

“Last call!” The bartender shouted a few hours later, looking relieved the night was almost over.

I found Antoni at a quiet corner table, still sparkly but significantly less grumpy. He’d loosened his tie, and something about the way he looked, messy, glittery, and drunk was unfairly attractive.

“Rough night, Sparkles?” I slid into the seat across from him.

“I’ve had worse.” He attempted to brush some glitter off his sleeve. “Though usually with less... shimmer.”

“You know that’s never coming off, right? You’ll be finding glitter in weird places for months.”

“Wonderful. A souvenir of this delightful evening.”

We sat in silence for a moment, watching our friends say their goodnights. Celina and Alessi were slow-dancing to no music, all earlier drama forgotten.

“So,” Antoni said finally, “I suppose we’ll be seeing rather a lot of each other this week. Wedding duties and all that.”

“Oh god, the wedding.” I groaned. “Please tell me you at least have most of your speech figured out?”

“Of course I do. What kind of best man do you take me for?”

“The kind covered in stripper glitter?”

He leaned forward, eyes glinting. “I bet you I’ll handle my duties better than you handle yours.”

“Oh really?” I matched his posture. “Care to make it interesting?”

“Name your terms, Marcilly.”

“If I win, you have to admit, on camera, that Americans make better tea than the British.”

He clutched his chest in mock horror. “You’re savage. Fine. But when I win, you have to let me teach you how to properly pronounce ‘schedule.’”

“Deal.” I stuck out my hand.

He took it, his warm grip lingering longer than necessary. “Deal.”

“You know,” he said softly, still holding my hand, “this week might not be completely terrible.”

“Was that almost a compliment?”

“Don’t let it go to your head.” He finally released my hand, but his smile was genuine. “Though I must admit, you handle chaos rather well.”

“I’ll take that as high praise from Mr. Proper Pants himself.”

“Mr. Proper Pants?”

“Would you prefer Sparkle Boy?”

He laughed, making me feel all warm and fuzzy, “Good night, Erica.”

“Good night, Antoni.”

As I watched him leave, still trailing glitter like some kind of posh fairy, I couldn’t shake the feeling that this wedding week was going to be anything but boring.

***

So, what did you think about this first chapter? Would love to hear your thoughts! :)