Chapter Text
Archeron’s tavern was an old place. Rickety wooden bar stools, table tops that had sustained so many stains over the years that they would never truly be clean again, and an ancient swinging sign outside that hung above the door and the smokers in the dim lighting, the shape of the bow and arrow upon it barely visible these days.
Nevertheless, it was the most popular pub in town.
Feyre, the bartender, had once pointed out to her dad that this was purely by virtue of being the only pub in town, but her father had just reminded her that even the little technicalities could be what made the business boom.
Feyre Archeron was working behind the bar one particular Saturday night, her third weekend shift that month, tired, sick of her own customer-service voice, wanting nothing more than to go upstairs after her shift and shower and sleep and relax for once. The weather hadn’t been helping of late either, a storm outside raging, windows shaking in the wind, making her even more irritable.
That was when the door to the tavern flew open, wind sweeping, cold, into the pub, letting in a small group of people she’d never seen before. In small town fashion, the entire pub turned to stare as the small party removed hoods and took down umbrellas, silently (but not so subtly) judging. Feyre couldn’t help staring either. New customers. New customers who looked like… that.
It happened, sometimes, she had to remind herself. Sure, mostly they just got the usual suspects, the returning few who had become regulars, but it wasn’t that uncommon for a hiker to stroll in, perhaps on holiday. Only these guys didn’t look like hikers. They looked like models. Millionaires. She didn’t know.
What she did know was that she’d massively over-poured the pub’s regular customer Isaac’s beer, and that the lager was now running down the glass and over her hand as she gaped at the man at the front of the group, strolling over, calm as ever.
Move, you idiot.
Starting, Feyre finished pulling the pint, giving the glass and her hand a quick wipe before handing it over to Isaac who nodded gratefully, paying and moving off to talk to his mates. Ordinarily she’d have paid him a bit more attention than this, but the guy heading towards her was a little bit distracting, to say the least. No one should be able to look like that.
Dark hair, cheekbones that could cut glass, a jawline like a freaking statue. She’d have thought the slight hint of violet in his eyes was the result of contact lenses if it didn’t suit him so damn much. Feyre tried desperately to tear her eyes away from him but it was proving weirdly difficult. And in spite of her overworked eyes, and her messy hair, and hands that smelt of beer and cheap soap, he was staring at her right back, wondering how anyone could look so good in an apron.
“Good evening.” He said, smiling, stopping still at the edge of the bar, the rest of his party heading for the last available table in the pub. Feyre nodded dumbly, staring up at him, trying to think of something, trying to say something, anything. Words dried in her throat. Sensing a word of response wasn’t exactly forthcoming, the newcomer turned his attention to the menu of beers above and behind Feyre. “Do you have any wines?” He asked, still scanning it, and Feyre started out of her reverie, shaking herself. Work. Work she knew well.
Focus up.
“Yeah, I’ll just grab the list.” She managed. How was she this goddamn nervous? She was never nervous. Feyre Archeron was not the kind of girl to get in a twist over a guy. Least of all one she didn’t even know.
Turning away, she grabbed the wine menu from the back shelf and handed it over to him.
She wanted to ask his name. She wanted to ask about who he was. What he was doing here. And she would have done if Isaac’s mate Jurian hadn’t joined them at the bar.
“Pint of ale, thanks love.” He ordered, as per usual, and Feyre sighed, cursing herself and his interruption. She gave the stranger a polite nod before turning her attention to Jurian’s drink, going as fast as she could, half an eye on the newcomer, wondering what he was doing in their little pub. She’d hardly been paying attention to the rest of the room, cosy and slightly loud as it was. Her father had a point of never playing music in there, believing it took away from the general charm of the place, but the volume of the customers usually more than made up for it. Jurian was quick to manage, and Feyre was back in front of the stranger in no time, wondering why he was wearing a suit. Why they were all dressed so formally. Maybe there’d been an event on in the nearby town?
“What can I get you?” She asked, trying to keep it bright. “Easy peasy, light and breezy” as her friend Suri would say. It was a dumb expression, but the little mantra was a relaxing one. And she needed to relax. For whatever reason this guy was throwing her off her nerves.
“Can I grab two bottles of the Cabernet Sauvignon?” He asked, pointing it out on the list. Thank god, to be honest, Feyre thought. The usual crowd in the pub was a more of a beer and pork scratchings lot, usually there wasn’t a taste for wine; despite being a bartender, Feyre still had no idea what was what.
“Yeah sure.” She nodded, taking the menu and turning back to try and find the bottles on the shelf. Thankfully, all in stock. “How many glasses?” She asked over her shoulder.
“Five, thanks.” Came the reply.
God, he had a nice voice. Something about it struck a chord with her. She wanted to hear him talk more.
Asking cash or credit shouldn’t have been a sexy question and yet.
“No nametags here?” Asked the man as he handed her a few notes, looking Feyre up and down ever so slightly. It was enough to make her stomach flip.
“It’s a small town. We don’t tend to need them.” She replied and he nodded, smiling to himself.
“And are city folk allowed to know your name as well?” He continued, a slight cheekiness in the edges of his smile, Feyre grinning back without meaning to.
“If you’re nice.” She said, heart thumping slightly harder.
“No promises.”
Feyre felt her cheeks heat up, and tried not to laugh at the familiar male cheekiness in his eyes.
“It’s Feyre. Feyre Archeron. Yourself?”
“Rhys.” He replies, before extending a hand over the bar for her to shake. “Pleasure to meet you.”
“I wouldn’t if I were you, I’ve got bartender hands.” Feyre replied, still wanting nothing more than to reach out and touch him, wanting to feel the slightly calloused palm in front of her. Was that weird?
Rhys retracted his hand, grinning at her, and Feyre had to take a moment, letting herself appreciate that gleaming smile, before dragging her consciousness back to work.
“I can bring it to your table if you want?” She said, nodding to the wine before grabbing a tray with the glasses, setting it down in front of her.
“Yes thanks. I’ll help.” He offered and Feyre felt her cheeks burn up. Again, unlike her. Rhys generously took the two bottles as she carried the glasses, trying not to shake or trip or otherwise embarrass herself in front of him. The table he was at was no less intimidating. His friends were all equally beautiful, two of them could even have been his brothers.
Get it together. Jesus.
“Here you go.” She said as she set down the tray. “Anything else I can get you guys?”
“No, that’s great, thank you Feyre.” Rhys said, and the sudden intimacy of her name on his lips made her shiver just a little, looking up at him to find he was already watching her, their eyes locking. Feyre had no idea how long that eye contact lasted. It was only when the blonde woman at the table, probably the most beautiful woman Feyre had ever seen, coughed lightly, looking back and forth between the two of them, that she realised she should look away.
Giving them an awkward nod, recognising her presence was no longer needed, Feyre headed back to the bar, wondering what the hell had her so frazzled.