I do not own PLL.
As he muffled his frustrated groan, Ezra Fitz looked around the semi-crowded bar and took a sip of his beer. His friend had blown him off for a date with his girlfriend. Again. It was the third time it had happened this month. Sighing, he finished his drink, put a twenty dollar bill on the bar, and resigned himself to a night at home alone.
"Can I buy you a drink?" asked a voice. He saw that it belonged to a woman who was suddenly perched on the barstool next to his, had an eyebrow raised and a half-smile that covered her face. He also saw that she was beautiful and her black lace top left little to the imagination. Suddenly, he wasn't so interested in going home.
"How about I buy you one?" he returned, resettling himself on his barstool. He gestured the bartender to bring them two more beers. He turned back to her. She was staring at him. He noticed big hazel eyes that glittered in the dim light.
"So," he began.
"So," she echoed playfully as her face broke out into a full smile.
"I'm Ezra," he let out.
"Did you get ditched here by a friend, Ezra?" she asked, looking up and down at him.
"How can you tell?" The bartender set their drinks in front of them, and Ezra wondered if he looked that pathetic and out of place by himself at the bar-Rosewood's only bar.
"Because my friend promised to meet me here and then ditched me for her boyfriend. I recognize the disappointment," she answered, taking a hearty swig of her beer. "I also happen to know you don't like to drink alone."
"How do you know that?" He felt slow and encumbered as he talked to her, like she expected him to know something that he didn't.
"I know lots of things about you," she promised. "Like the fact that you're a professor at Hollis." She took another drink of her beer, licking her lips suggestively when she was done.
"Do you go there?" he asked, suddenly wary.
"No, I don't. But my dad is a professor. I recognize the look." She carelessly gestured to his slacks and button-down shirt.
Catching on, Ezra relaxed and dazzled her with a smile of his own. "Should I take that as a compliment or an insult?"
She shrugged and finished her beer. "Take it however you like." She paused for a moment, straining to listen to something behind her. Her face broke into another smile. "God, I love this song."
"B-26?"
"Yes," she admitted bashfully. "I used to listen to it all the time growing up. It was a favorite of mine in high school."
He studied her again, and noticed her dangerously high heels, slim legs, and long luxurious dark hair. "Where did you get that?" he asked suddenly, pointing to her bracelet.
"Nairobi," she supplied, taking off the exquisitely carved piece of wooden jewelry and showing it to him. "I travel a lot with my job."
"What do you do?" he asked, suddenly fascinated with the mysterious woman beside him.
"I guess you could say I'm a freelance writer. And photographer. I go all over the world for stories," she finished, slipping her bracelet back on. Their fingers touched slightly, and Ezra felt a bolt of electricity. He looked at her, but she didn't give any indication that he noticed.
"Like guides for tourists?" he asked, turning his attention back to her face.
"More like National Geographic," she replied. "But I'm taking time off to start my own book. A collection of photographs and stories from my travels."
"Why Rosewood?"
"It's home," she replied, visibly holding back a smile. "I grew up here. My dad is here, my friends."
He thought hard for a moment. "Anyone I know?"
She was silent for a moment, her face a blank mask of shock and impassivity. Then she burst into laughter. He looked back at her in shock and discomfort. "I'm sorry," she said when she had calmed down. "I thought you would recognize me. We've met before," she added.
He groaned. "Please don't tell me this is one of those moments where I royally embarrassed myself by not recognizing you."
"No, nothing like that," she reassured him warmly. "I just thought you would remember me. But clearly your memory has become addled with age," she teased. "This was quite a few years ago."
Ezra looked at her again, studied her perfectly manicured nails, unblemished face, beautiful body, and then thought about her warm and playful manner. He shook his head. "I'm sorry," he replied. "I'm drawing a blank. Of course," he added, almost as an afterthought, almost too caught up in the game to notice it earlier, "it would help if I had your name."
"Hmm," she let out playfully, "but that might give it away, and how would you feel then?"
"First name?" Ezra suggested hopefully.
She thought about it for a moment. "Aria," she said softly. When he didn't react, she drew herself closer to him. "No bells?"
"None," he admitted shamefully.
"Well, then," she said meeting his gaze. He licked his lips in response. "I guess you won't mind when I do this." She drew her voice back into a whisper as her lips met his.
He hadn't expected the response that his body gave or her reaction. She melted into him and he rested his hands on her waist. She was so small and dainty. And she felt perfect in his arms. When she broke off the kiss, he hungrily captured her lips again in his, not ready to let her go quite yet.
"Wow," she said when it was over. "I wasn't expecting…."
"Yeah, me neither," he interjected. He looked around him. "You want to get out of this place?"
She tilted her head. "You really want to?"
"Of course," replied Ezra, hoping that she didn't see the blatant hope and expectation on his face. Or the raw desire.
She slowly nodded her assent. "Then let's go," she whispered. He grabbed her hand and led her out the door and into the cool night air. She smiled shyly as he led her to his car. Slightly amazed at the amount of trust she had in him, Ezra put the car into gear and began the drive to his home.
"A typewriter?" asked Aria with a tilt of her head and arch of her eyebrow. She delicately touched the machine and ran her fingers over the buttons.
He shrugged. "I like to remember that there was literature before computers."
"An English professor," she let out, turning to him.
"Did you know that about me too?" he asked.
"Well, I think the James Joyce collection on your bookshelf kind of gave it away." She giggled as she revealed the fact, causing him to smile.
He handed her a drink-brandy-before leading her to the brown leather sofa on the edge of the living room. She took it gratefully as he continued the conversation. "Don't tell me you don't like Joyce."
She took a sip of her drink as shook her head. "On the contrary. I love Ireland and all things Irish. I was there six months ago as a matter of fact. Stopped by the hotel. You know, the one in Dublin where Gabriel and Gretta stay at the end of The Dead."
"I bet it was amazing," he said softly.
"It was," she agreed, "but it was cold and rainy. I preferred the sun in India compared to the drizzle of Ireland."
"So what's your favorite place?" he asked, intrigued. "From everywhere you've traveled?"
"Would it be silly and childish of me to say home?" she asked, a smile in her voice and eyes.
"Would it be silly and childish of me to say there have got to be more exciting places than Rosewood?" he returned.
She laughed softly. "Reykjavik," supplied Aria. "I spent some time there with my dad after my mom died. It's become like a second home."
"It bet its beautiful."
"It is. I try to go back as often as I can. I've got a trip scheduled there in a few months." She paused and then arched an eyebrow. "I see what you're doing. You're trying to get me to spill my guts to see if you remember me." She shook her head and clicked her tongue. "That's just rude."
"Would you rather me not remember you?"
"I would rather you have recognized me the first time," retorted Aria as she put her drink on the table and drew her legs underneath her, slipping her shoes off in the process.
"How about we don't talk?" asked Ezra suggestively, instinctively sliding himself closer to the petite woman.
She studied him warily for a moment and then looked at the wooden staircase behind her and then back at him. "I don't sleep with someone on the first date," she told him bluntly.
"So this is a date?" he teased, leaning his body closer to hers.
"You know, women like to be wooed," she said as he began tracing her eyebrow with his finger.
"You should have thought of that before you refused to tell me your last name," he whispered.
"Maybe I should have," she admitted quietly as his fingers wandered to the top of her blouse.
"Yeah, maybe," he mumbled as he kissed her. She responded in kind, as hungrily as him. And he pulled her closer and closer to the edge of passion, showing her his wants and desires. And Aria let him.
When Aria woke up the next morning, she was nestled comfortably on the couch and semi-aware of the fact that Ezra had covered her with a blanket sometime in the middle of the night. She looked around the living room and noticed he wasn't there and had probably gone up to spend the night in his room. Sighing, she grabbed her shoes and purse from under the coffee table and quietly walked out the front door.
She let out a breath of relief at the sound of Ezra's front door closing behind her. She took a moment to appreciate his home with its blue shutters and wrap-around porch before thinking about what exactly had gone on last night. She still couldn't believe that she had gotten away with him not recognizing her. She couldn't believe he hadn't recognized her in the first place. Ten years wasn't such a long time, was it?
Maybe it was, she reasoned during her walk home. Maybe ten years makes a difference in recognizing the familiar, in changing a person's personality completely. But still. She didn't know whether to be appreciative or offended at the fact that he saw her as a woman he picked up in a bar. Turning onto a familiar street, she sighed and took in the picture of her childhood home on the corner.
As quietly as she could, she got her keys out and opened the door, taking her shoes off when she reached the entryway. Silently closing the door, she began to tiptoe up the stairs, stumbling when a voice caught her off guard.
"And where were you last night?" asked Byron Montgomery primly from his spot in the dining room where he sat drinking his morning coffee and reading the newspaper despite the earliness of the hour.
Rolling her eyes, Aria reluctantly retraced her steps back to the first floor and looked at her father. "We agreed we wouldn't have these conversations," she reminded him a sing-song voice. "You're not allowed to ask me where I spent the night, and I'm not allowed to ask you about other…things," she finished delicately.
"Well, the other things as you so kindly put it don't exist," said Byron sharply. "Besides, the agreement was that you would tell me when you were spending the night out."
Aria let out a deep breath. "Well, it just kind of happened, okay? I was at the bar waiting for Spencer, and I saw someone I knew from high school, and, well, I didn't get a chance to call."
Byron sighed in acceptance. "Just remember to call or text next time. You didn't even have to tell me who you're with. Just say you're with Spencer. Okay?"
Aria nodded her head. "Okay," she reluctantly agreed. "I need a few more hours of sleep, and then I'll come down and make lunch for us. Okay?" she asked her father.
"Okay," he replied. "Honey," he called out after his daughter.
"Yes," she replied trying to keep the frustration out of her voice.
"I love you."
"I love you too, Dad," she cried back as she ran up the stairs.
Shaking his head, Byron listened as he footsteps thudded against the hardwood floor and her bedroom door was shut with a sudden crack as wood hit wood. Whoever it was that had caught her attention was obviously someone special.
FYI:
Ella died when Aria was sixteen.
There is no Mike.
Byron is a better, kinder person than he is in the TV series.