A/N: Thank you everyone for your reviews that was incredibly nice of all of you. Anyway, here's the next chapter. This is short and a little bit disappointing, but I hope you all enjoy!
Again, thanks to the very nice and the very helpful, Emma (everyshipunsinkable) for beta-reading and for all her input.
Chapter Two
After several days had passed, he decided to come back to the pub he went to the night before the whole infamous tabloid fiasco. He would have come sooner, but he had to wait until the whole fuss was over and the media had found someone else to pester before he was able to come back. This time, however, he was determined not to get so pissed. He only wanted to listen to the woman sing, and if possible, talk to her after. Maybe this time he would be able to get her name.
He entered the pub and went straight to his booth from the last time. He sunk down heavily on the cushioned chair, his eyes trained on the stage, in case she ever came out and performed. He waited, counting exactly three hours, but she wasn't there. Neither did she appear when it was announced that it was the last set. In short, she wasn't even going to perform that day.
He sighed as he walked out of the bar, feeling deflated. He had hoped to see her and talk to her, to thank her for her help that evening. But she wasn't there. She hadn't shown up.
And neither did she show up for the next two days. He had gone again the following night, and the night after that, hoping that her band would be playing. But they didn't. He was losing hope. It had seemed at the time that she was a regular performer in the pub. But he realized she might not be, and it was only because he was intoxicated that he thought as such. The warmth and excitement that he felt thrumming through the crowd might only have been brought about by the fact that she was a rather attractive foreigner. It might not have been because of familiarity.
He decided to stop coming all together, thinking that he would only be disappointed if he didn't see her and get to thank her. Although for the life of him, he couldn't understand why.
He threw himself to the work he needed to finish, instead, for the company his family owned, knowing that it was the only way to get his mind off of it, of her. She eluded him, that was for sure. She looked so unsure when she was on stage, although once she had gotten her bearing, he could feel her confidence, and could feel the passion she felt for her music. Her pretty blue eyes that had held his for a few seconds fleeted across his mind from time to time. He barely found the restraint to stop himself from going back to the pub one more time.
On a Friday, very much the same day he had gone the last time he'd seen her, he gave in to the urge and went to the pub. He told his driver, Williams, to drop him off at the pub, and instructed him to wait for his call when he wanted to be picked up. He had his cell phone turned off, so his family wouldn't be able to interrupt him. And neither would business, for that matter.
He entered the pub in the same manner that he did the last three days that he went here—quietly and nonchalantly—heading straight to his booth at the very back. He ordered not a single drop of alcohol, but instead, he contented himself with a cup of coffee. If he was to see her tonight, then he would be completely sober.
His attention turned to the people in the pub, as he sipped his hot coffee. He watched them, noncommittally, not really caring, but only wanting to pass time. It was already half past nine. How many more hours did he have to wait before she came out and performed?
Was she even performing that night like she did the last?
His answers were given, when less than an hour later, the host (actually, just the person who announced the performers onstage) came bounding towards the stage.
"Please welcome, Sadie and the hotheads!" the host said, garnering a round of applause from the crowd.
He thought nothing of it, until she came out of the stage. The pale skinned woman with dark hair and blue eyes. She was the same woman who had poured him in a taxi the week before, and the same woman who he had been going to this pub for. She smiled at the crowd, scrunching her nose adorably, before she poised her fingers on her guitar, ready to start singing.
"Get up, get out of bed," she sang, her voice low, and her smile never wavering. Her eyes were scanning the crowd, and when it met his, they widened for a second, before she snapped out of it, and continued her lazy tour of the room with her eyes.
He listened intently as she sang, his eyes trained only to her. She would look over at his general direction sometimes, and their eyes would lock for a brief second, before she would turn away. More than once, he caught a tinge of pink sweep across her pale cheek. She sang two more songs after that, and never once did his attention drift away from her.
After their set was finished, she had exited the same manner she had the last time he had seen her perform. He wasn't exactly sure, now, how he would be able to get to talk to her. Perhaps, he hadn't really thought this through.
Was he going to wait until the pub was closed, and hope to all hell that she would just be leaving by then? Or was he supposed to go out now and hope to all hell that he stumbles again with her? Well, he was stuck in a limbo at the moment.
Sighing, he made a snap decision to just get out of there and look if she was already out. If she wasn't, he could always come back inside, under the pretence that he had taken a very important phone call.
He walked out of the pub, feeling the cold air hit his face the moment he did. He looked around, hoping to spot her, but to no avail. And so, he waited outside the pub in the biting wind, thinking how much he'd rather be inside. But he wasn't sure when she would be getting out, so his best bet was to wait for her outside.
When she did come out, it was nearly an hour later, and he felt so cold that he feared his fingers might fall off. And his nose, and his ears too. His face felt numb, and he knew he was so red. She walked in a different direction from where he was sitting in, and it dawned on him that she might not have seen him.
"Hey," he said, calling after her retreating form.
She turned sharply, and then gasped softly when she saw him. It was comical, and most unladylike that Robert had to chuckle. He walked towards her, grinning.
"You—I-me," she stammered, still staring at him. She felt foolish, and she probably appeared thus, but she was rather surprised to see him there again, sober, nonetheless.
"Very, very eloquent," he teased, grinning even wider.
She snapped out of her state. "What on earth are you doing here?" she asked, blushing when she realized how rude that probably sounded. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to be rude."
"No need for apologies," he said. "I'm Robert Crawley." He extended his hand to her, and she shook it, albeit reluctantly. "And I just came here to thank you for you know…the last time I was here."
She nodded, smiling a little. "It's quite alright," she said. "I'm surprised to find you here, again, considering I didn't think a man of your stature ever really goes to this area." Her eyebrow rose, making him redden a little bit. She was definitely alluding to the newspaper article about a week ago.
"No, I don't generally go to this area," he affirmed. "But, you know how a man sometimes finds himself in strange places, Miss, uh?" He scratched the back of his head, looking at her questioningly.
"I apologize," she said. "How rude of me. Cora Levinson, my name is Cora Levinson."
"You're an American," he commented belatedly, although it was one of the first things he had noticed about her. Aside, of course, from her beautiful, vibrant eyes and her charming and completely disarming smile.
"Yes, I am," she laughed. "I didn't think I could get away with being English, with my accent and all."
He chuckled. "Again, thank you, Miss Levinson, for coming to my aid when I needed it," he said. "If there is any way I could repay you, please just say so, and I will try to…"
"No need," she cut him off. "Your thank you is enough for me." She smiled at him and then heaved her bag against her shoulder all the while balancing her guitar on her hand. "I should get going, I'm afraid, but you have a good night, Mr. Crawley."
"Thank you, Miss Levinson," he said.
"Just so long as you don't make too good of a night," she added, laughing.
He chuckled with her. "Of course," he said. "You have a goodnight too."
"You seem a bit distracted," Rosamund Crawley commented as she looked at her brother who seemed to have drifted off to space, yet again. It had been a common occurrence now, for him to stare off into space, as it had been happening for the past week.
"Do I?" he asked, finally snapping out of it and looking at his sister. "I'm afraid my mind is elsewhere."
They were in the Crawley house in London, far away from their parents who had now gone back to their house in Yorkshire. Robert who was in charge of the business, of course, was left in London. And his sister, Rosamund, being in the midst of wedding plans, also stayed in London.
"That is obvious," Rosamund replied, cocking an eyebrow at his brother. "That certain something has been on your mind for two weeks now. Care to share, brother?" A very rosy blush crept from Robert's cheek down to his neck, and Rosamund could not help but be curious. It appeared to her that she had asked a wrong question.
"It's nothing," he said, shaking his head. Had it really been a week?
"It is most definitely not nothing if you are turning as red as a tomato," Ros countered.
"Who's turning red?" Robert asked in a helpless attempt in innocence. He was as guilty as charged. "I'm not turning red. And I'm not thinking about anyone."
Rosamund laughed. It was always fun to catch Robert in his own lies. "Well, there you go," she pointed out merrily. "I didn't say it was anyone. You did."
Robert reddened even more, if that was at all possible. He sighed and looked at his sister exasperatedly. "Shouldn't you be busy with your wedding preparations? Or at least be in phone with Marmaduke?"
Rosamund laughed at Robert's pathetic attempt at changing the subject. Had she been another person, he would have been successful. But she was Rosamund Crawley, and she never was swayed easily. "What is it Robert?" she asked seriously now.
"Nothing, really," Robert said. He looked at her, trying to make her understand that it really was nothing. "It isn't anything."
"Well, well," Rosamund said, standing up and walking towards the door. "I do have some fittings to attend to, but, this doesn't mean that I will let it rest. You should know that I will try to get it out of you." And then she exited, cackling on her way out.
Robert sighed. He wouldn't know what to tell his sister. It really wasn't anything. It was just a pair of bright blue eyes and a sweet smile that haunted his thoughts. It wasn't anyone specifically, just someone with raven hair and pale skin.
"It's not anything yet, anyway," he mumbled to himself, not really knowing what to think of it himself.