World Cup [larry stylinson a.u.]

31.0

THE IRISH

“So basically, what you are telling me is that you are picturing how sex with my ex would go like? Seriously?” he frowns at me while we take our seats next to the bar, “It makes me feel very confident, thank you.”

“No,” I answer quickly, “Not in that way. I just,” I try to find convincing words but nothing comes to my mind because he is right, I’m totally picturing the hottie as a bottom and, let me just say this, Damn! That’s hot.

“You totally are,” he brings me back from my thoughts.

“No, I am not,” I try to hold my laugh but I’m really bad at lying. Well, I’m not usually bad at lying but this guy seems to have a detector or something.

“Whatever,” he shrugs, “It’s okay. I get it.”

“Bottom tourist is way hotter than bottom hottie,” I bump his arm, “Just saying.”

“Shut up,” he rolls his eyes at me, “That ain’t happening.”

“Oh yes, it will,” I correct him, “Just give me time.”

“Whatever,” he looks away from me, “Do you want Niall’s number or something? You two sound like you are meant to be anyways so,” he lifts his index to get a drink.

“Is it just me or bum is jealous?”

“I don’t even know who bum is,” he gives me a disgusted look.

“You are bum,” I get closer, “You are my bum.”

“I haven’t accepted the nickname yet,” he tries to ignore me.

“Well, I don’t exactly remember being asked before you started calling me bubu.”

“But bubu is cute and you love it, so shut the fuck up,” he sticks his tongue out, “Bubu.”

“Okay, bum,” I mock his tone.

“What are we getting? Drinks or dessert?”

“That’s actually the magic thing about this place,” I try to sound charming, “You don’t have to pick between them,” I say as I take a look at the menu, “Look at this one. Vodka Strawberry smoothie with a hint of mint and Limoncello.”

“That’s not dessert,” he crosses his arms, “I want cake.”

“If bum wants cake, bum gets cake,” I’m finally able to make the pretty tourist smile, “I see cake here. Irish drunken cake,” I read out loud before I actually realize what I’m reading.

“Are you shitting me?” he goes back to grumpy mood.

“Sorry,” I gulp, “Here’s another one. Mousse de Maracujá,” I try to make my Brazilian accent sound good.

“What?”

“Mousse de Maracujá,” I try again but my tongue seems to be drunk so nothing understandable comes out from my mouth, “Whatever, Passion fruit and tequila mousse, sounds good.”

“I’ll get one,” he calls the waitress, “What do you want? I’ll order because your Portuguese embarrasses me.”

“Um,” I take a second look at the menu, “I’m not sure I see anything I want,” I lie.

“Come on, Harry,” he gives me an annoyed expression, “Just order it.”

“What do you mean?” I play clueless.