After leaving Rowling's house, Bruce and Christopher Ritt checked into a hotel in Exeter.
According to the plan they had already agreed on, Bruce would visit Rowling again the next day, while Christopher would fly to the United States with most of his net worth tied up in the deal.
Their roles were clear.
Bruce would stay in Exeter and keep building goodwill with Rowling.
Christopher would handle the search for a suitable publishing house to acquire.
Aside from using his knowledge of Harry Potter Books Five, Six, and Seven to deepen Rowling's interest in him, Bruce was also keeping a close eye on the 1999 to 2000 UEFA Champions League Final, which had the whole continent buzzing.
Even though Manchester United, Liverpool, and Arsenal had all stumbled that year, the passion English fans had for European football hadn't faded at all. Wanting to experience the legendary culture of English football fandom for himself, Bruce deliberately left the entire evening of May twenty-fourth open and headed into one of Exeter's most famous supporter bars.
Inside, the bar wasn't that different from bars he had seen in the United States.
But one thing stood out immediately.
Everywhere you looked, there were signs of Exeter City.
That was one of the clearest features of football culture in England, and in Europe more broadly. Fans backed their local club with real devotion, even if it played in the third division, the fourth division, or lower. Right now, although the television was showing the buildup to the Champions League Final, most of the people in the bar were wearing Exeter City's red-and-black striped shirts.
"One beer," Bruce said as he settled onto a stool at the bar.
"Right away, sir."
The bartender, wearing a red-and-black checked scarf, poured a large glass of beer and set it down in front of him.
Bruce took a sip, then let his eyes travel through the room before settling on the large television mounted to the wall.
"Max, who do you think takes this one?"
A bare-chested man with a thick beard lifted his beer and asked the friend beside him.
"Do you even need to ask? Real Madrid, obviously. They've got Raul, Hierro, Redondo, and McManaman. Man for man, they're stronger than Valencia."
"I don't know," another fan cut in. "Valencia's no joke. Cañizares is every bit the keeper Casillas is. In midfield, their captain Gaizka Mendieta can hold his own against Redondo. And with Pellegrino and Ayala in the middle, plus Angloma, they've got a back line that's no pushover. Sky's pre-match analysis said Valencia had the second-best defensive record in La Liga this year, behind only Atlético. That tells you plenty. And up front they've still got Angulo and López. They knocked out Barcelona in the semis, didn't they? And Barcelona isn't weaker than Madrid."
Real football fans knew their lineups.
And on a night like this, everyone had done their homework. Even people who just wanted to sound smart over a pint wanted to have enough to say.
As usual, once someone took one side, someone else took the other.
Since neither team was Exeter City, the bar split neatly into two camps. One side backed Real Madrid to win on sheer star power. The other believed Valencia could finish their underdog run by taking down another giant after already eliminating Barcelona.
Back then, European football had not yet been completely swallowed by modern money. The top clubs in each country were strong, but not so overwhelmingly rich that they crushed all suspense out of the sport. Whether it was the Champions League or the UEFA Cup, every season still had room for a real dark horse.
That would change after 2003, when Roman Abramovich bought Chelsea and major capital started flooding into the game. Once the big money came in, the gap between elite clubs and everyone else widened fast. After that, surprise runs became far rarer.
Bruce sat quietly at the bar and watched the television without joining the debate.
And honestly, with his face standing out so clearly among a room full of white Englishmen, he drew enough curious glances already. People looked his way now and then, but nobody came over to chat.
As kickoff drew closer and the match coverage intensified, the bar grew packed.
Team sports were always better in a crowd.
But once the place filled up, the owner behind the bar and the one server helping him were no longer enough.
"Molly, come give me a hand!"
A young woman's voice floated down from the top of the stairs, clear and musical.
"Coming, Dad. Be right there."
"Molly's back?"
One of the regulars called out to the owner.
"Yeah," the middle-aged man behind the counter replied with a proud smile. "School's out for the summer. She got back yesterday."
"Molly's the prettiest rose in Exeter," another man said with a grin. "Haven't seen her in half a year. Bet she's even more stunning now."
"Rudy, my son's the same age as Molly," someone else chimed in loudly. "He's already in his third year at Exeter Law, tall, handsome, and he just landed an internship at Freshfields. Bright future ahead. I think he'd be a perfect match for her."
"Save it, Sig," another man shot back. "Everyone knows your boy's been fooling around with that widow Annie over on Rose Street."
"Damn it, Nicholas Pyles, if you can't keep your mouth shut then don't talk at all!"
The bar erupted in laughter.
Then footsteps descended the stairs.
Almost every head in the room turned away from the television and toward the staircase.
Bruce did too.
The first thing he saw was a white sneaker and a slim pale ankle.
Then came a pair of smooth, slender calves.
A soft pink skirt, falling below the knee, hid the line of her thighs as she came down step by step.
Below a fitted white long-sleeve top, her waist was narrow and elegant, and her hands were delicate, perfectly proportioned.
By now, every man in the room was waiting for the rest.
Bruce wasn't any different.
And she didn't disappoint.
Above the graceful line of her neck and the clean slope of her shoulders was a face so finely shaped and luminous that the whole room seemed to sharpen around it. Her features were delicate but not fragile, striking in a way that felt almost unreal.
Even more unusual, her skin was smooth and clear under the lights, without the freckles so often seen on European women by adulthood.
And then there was her hair.
Black.
Long, tied back in a simple ponytail that fell naturally behind her.
Bruce was honestly caught off guard.
In a small Exeter bar, he had not expected to see someone this beautiful, this strikingly pure and yet somehow cool at the same time. In both face and aura, she reminded him of the kind of woman who looked like she belonged in an old painting and under bright stage lights at the same time.
She was around five-seven, maybe a touch taller.
And more than simply pretty, she had presence.
When she stepped into the room, it felt as if the whole bar had grown brighter.
"Take the counter for me," Rudy Bevin said to her, his broad, aging face full of pride.
His daughter was the jewel of Exeter.
Not only stunning, but gifted.
Three years earlier she had entered the Royal Academy with top marks in painting, and though still young, she had already held a solo exhibition in London. In the last year she had even signed with Gagosian. To Rudy, the future was obvious. His daughter would one day become a recognized artist and step into the world most people only dreamed of.
Molly Bevin gave a small nod and stepped behind the bar, seemingly unbothered by the waves of attention fixed on her. She had clearly been dealing with that kind of gaze for years.
Rudy handed over the pouring while he himself took over running drinks and snacks out to the tables.
By then, the Champions League broadcast on television no longer seemed nearly as important as it had a few minutes earlier. Except for the older diehards, more than half the men in the bar were now openly or quietly watching Molly Bevin instead.
Bruce had the best seat in the room.
He was close enough to catch the faint scent of jasmine from her as she moved.
"Could I get another beer?"
Molly had already noticed the Asian man sitting at the bar, the one who had been looking at her from time to time.
"Do you want ice in it?"
"No, thanks."
She nodded, poured the beer, and set it in front of him.
"Thanks."
She acknowledged it with the slightest nod and moved on.
But Bruce would have been lying to himself if he pretended he didn't want to talk to her. She was exactly his type, at least in looks and temperament. And if he sat there and did nothing, then he really would deserve every joke ever made about timid men who never dared to make a move.