46
Harley wanders away to tend to his other customers. I wait, heart pounding, as Killian takes the stool beside mine. He pretends to peruse the menu written in chalk hanging on the wall behind the bar. Then, sounding exactly like he walked off a cattle ranch in Texas, he drawls, “Hey, there, darlin’. How ya’ll doin’ tonight?” I resist the urge to slam my forehead onto the bar and shoot my tequila instead. Then, with no accent whatsoever, he says, “Not feeling the cowboy vibe, huh? I knew I should’ve gone with a British accent. Women love a British accent.” “Actually, what we love is plunging a pitchfork through the chest of an annoying man who’s tied to a chair, then lighting him on fire.” “Hmm. I don’t know if there’s an accent for that.” I hear the smothered laughter in his voice and
- Writer
