Page 5 of Yule Know It When You See It
“Deal.”
We shake on it, sealing the agreement just in time for two behemoth-sized beers set in front of us.
“Damn, Spence. Went with the big boys, huh?” Chuckling, I display the size of the mug compared to my forearm which is nearly equal. “This’ll do nothing for my Carpal tunnel.”
Spence snorts into his mug. “Next, you’re going to tell me you got it from typing.” He makes a jerking-off gesture with his free hand.
“Nah,” I counter, curling my hand around the mug’s handle with my left hand. “That’s what the left hand is for.”
“You’re positively disgusting,” Spencer jokes, using a horrible version of a British accent.
Smiling and shaking my head, I bring the mug to my lips, relishing in hops and barley. A trait I immediately gave America credit for—they certainly weren’t lacking in beer variety.
“Do you do that on purpose?” Spence asks, pointing at my arm.
Quirking a brow, I glance at my bicep stretching the shirt’s fabric. “Those are called muscles, Spence. You’d know of them if you did more than just run a bajillion miles a week.”
“I could outrun you.” Spencer raises his brows over his mug as he drinks.
I chuckle and wipe the beer collecting on the hair above my lip with a cocktail napkin. “Yes, you could. And you can have it.”
“Oh. My. God. We love your accent,” a high-pitched woman’s voice screeches behind us.
“Faen,” I whisper under my breath, take a long drink, and turn on my stool to face them.
The brunette woman bites her lip and, without shame, roams her gaze from my face to my knees. “Where are you from?”
Condensation from my mug drips onto my thigh, the blonde woman’s eyes darting to it.
“The US,” I answer, knowing they didn’t mean my current residence.
The blonde giggles. “No, we mean where are you from originally with an accent like that?”
“Norway,” I clip, raising the ale to my lips and gulping some of it.
The women gasp and swat each other’s shoulders, still a barrel of laughs and smiles. I catch Spencer rolling his eyes out of his skull from the corner of my gaze.
“Wow. So, is your name Ragnar or something?” The brunette asks, inching closer to me, a peculiar lust suddenly playing in her darkened eyes.
I smirk and rest the mug on my knee. “No. Afraid not. Have a cousin named Ragnar, though, and another whose middle name is Thor.”
The squealing laughter intensifies, and they grip each other’s hands.
I’ve been in this country for over a decade and have had countless people ask about my accent, that’s dwindled since my first year here, but this level of enthusiasm? It’s a first.
“Could we—” The blonde starts, removing her phone from the tiniest excuse for a purse I’ve ever seen. “—get a selfie with you?”
When did being a foreigner become celebrity status?
“Uh,” I pause, looking at Spencer for a lifeline.
The asshole looks away.
“Sure,” I finish, turning to rest my beer on the bar.
The two women huddle around me, leaning their faces so close to mine that our cheeks almost brush. I spread my arms wide against the bar’s edge to appear as if my arms were aroundthem.
The blonde raises her phone, framing us, and I debate for a millisecond whether to smile. I don’t. Instead, I arch a brow and let the beard steal the show. The shutter goes off not only once but three times, and the blonde lowers the phone, the two of them gazing at the screen as she scrolls through the shots.
