"Hi. My name's Bruce Guo. And... you're Molly Bevin, right?"
Molly had been approached by enough boys in her life that this barely registered as anything unusual. She gave Bruce a cool look, decided he wasn't especially annoying, and then gave a small nod. Her beautiful face remained unreadable.
"You study oil painting?"
"How did you know?"
Bruce pointed to a framed landscape hanging on the wall behind the counter.
"Your name's on that."
Molly didn't even need to look. She already knew which painting he meant. After her exhibition last year, her father had hung that landscape, titled Home, on the wall of the bar. In one corner was her signature.
"You really painted that beautifully," Bruce said. "I wish I had that kind of talent. I tried drawing for a while in middle school, but I wasn't any good at it, so I gave up."
Because of her major, Molly was naturally most interested in anything related to painting.
"Not everyone is suited to oil painting."
"You're right. I'm terrible at painting, but I'm good at math. I've already earned a master's in computer science from Stanford, along with bachelor's degrees in economics and history. And my new book is about to be published."
Bruce knew very well that if you wanted to catch the attention of an exceptional woman, the best way was to be impressive enough that she had to notice.
And it worked.
For the first time, Molly's movements paused.
Then she looked at him again, this time with real attention instead of casual indifference.
All at once, she noticed something different about him. Compared to the handsome, eager young men at school who constantly tried to charm her, this man had a strange contradiction to him. He looked young, even a little boyish, but there was a weariness in his eyes and a kind of quiet melancholy in the way he carried himself. and set against his youthful face and good looks, it created a very unusual kind of appeal.
It made her want to look closer.
"Are you showing off your degrees?" she asked coolly. "Or your conveniently unverifiable talents?"
Even with her tone still cold, Bruce was pleased.
Compared to her earlier indifference, he now had her full attention.
"Do you know peacocks?" he asked.
Molly's eyes shifted slightly, then she nodded.
"In Chinese culture, the peacock is a symbol of beauty, nobility, kindness, and good fortune. When a male peacock sees a female he likes, he spreads his tail, dances, and shows off as much as possible, all to catch her attention and win her over."
There was no hiding what he meant.
In the West, this kind of directness wasn't necessarily rude.
Molly glanced at him.
"As far as I know, in Chinese there's also an expression about a peacock showing its tail. It can mean being self-important. Or getting carried away with yourself."
Bruce blinked.
"You know that too?"
Molly gave the faintest smile, clearly pleased that she'd surprised him.
"I'm one quarter Chinese. My grandmother was from Singapore."
"That explains it." Bruce smiled. "So do you speak Chinese too?"
"A little. Not much."
"Molly, don't tell strangers too much."
Rudy Bevin had come back with drinks, and like fathers everywhere, he said exactly the kind of thing fathers always said.
Molly gave a small nod and stopped responding.
"Sir, I believe you came here to drink."
The warning in Rudy's face couldn't have been clearer.
Bruce smiled and nodded.
"Rudy, two more beers, two grilled sausages, and a plate of peanuts."
"Right away."
Rudy answered and carried the tray back out from behind the counter. Before leaving, though, he shot Bruce another warning look. Bruce, with two lifetimes behind him, wasn't remotely intimidated.
"Molly, would you paint my portrait sometime? I'd pay you."
"Sorry. My father told me not to talk to you."
Bruce gave a helpless shrug.
"Oh my God. Molly, you're an adult. You should be allowed to have your own opinions."
"I do have my own opinions," she said calmly. "And I don't think I need to know you."
Bruce looked at her and couldn't help wondering when exactly his charm had dropped off so badly.
The original Bruce had never lacked attention from attractive girls, not in high school, not in college. He had been the kind of guy who excelled at school, music, and sports all at once.
Then again, none of those girls had looked like Molly Bevin.
"Would you like to meet J. K. Rowling?" he asked suddenly.
That did it.
Molly stopped wiping down the counter.
"You know J. K. Rowling?"
With Harry Potter a global phenomenon, especially in Britain, Rowling's name carried enormous weight. She was more beloved than most politicians and better known than many celebrities.
The moment Bruce saw her reaction, he knew he'd found the right angle.
"Of course. Didn't I tell you? I'm a writer. That's actually why I came to Exeter. I wanted to ask Rowling a few things about writing. Oh, and her literary agent also happens to be my literary agent."
Molly studied him carefully.
At first, when he had said he held three Stanford degrees and was also a writer, she hadn't believed a word of it. She had assumed he was like all the others, another man trying to impress her with exaggerated claims and shiny nonsense.
But now she wasn't so sure.
Maybe he hadn't been lying.
"Sir, I already warned you not to harass my daughter."
Rudy came back again, this time visibly angry, and moved toward Bruce with the heavy energy of a man ready to escalate.
Bruce looked up at the big white man, over six feet tall, broad as a wall, with a beard thick enough to make him look like he'd been carved out of oak. He honestly found it hard to understand how a man like this had somehow fathered someone as elegant and almost unreal as Molly.
"My mistake," Bruce said mildly.
Then he turned away from her, as if he'd finally gotten the message, and fixed his attention on the match playing on the television.
It really did look like he had no intention of bothering her again.
Rudy gave a dissatisfied grunt, but didn't push things any further. Bruce was still a paying customer, after all.
What Rudy didn't notice was that while Molly worked, she kept glancing over at Bruce from time to time.
The name J. K. Rowling had done what it was supposed to do.
Ever since Harry Potter became a worldwide sensation, Rowling's image as a tough, intelligent, deeply learned literary woman had spread just as widely as her books. Countless women admired her. Molly, who had grown up in Exeter, was one of them.
And because of that, her curiosity had been thoroughly stirred.
For the rest of the match, Molly half expected Bruce to try again the moment her father stepped away.
He didn't.
To her surprise, he seemed completely absorbed in the game on the television. He barely looked away from it, let alone at her.
Several times, Molly nearly worked up the nerve to ask him whether he really knew Rowling.
Every time, her father appeared again and ruined the moment.
So things dragged on like that until the final whistle.
The referee blew to end the match.
At that instant, while the Real Madrid players on screen erupted into celebration, Bruce practically launched himself off the stool.
He slammed a fist into his palm, then threw both arms into the air, pumping them hard. He was so excited his face twisted with it.
People around him immediately started talking.
"Is something wrong with that Asian guy?"
"Who knows? Maybe he's a Real Madrid fan."
There were no Real Madrid supporters in the bar, so Bruce's reaction stood out badly. He drew curious looks, mocking comments, and more than a little open ridicule.
Bruce couldn't have cared less.
He was ecstatic.
The result had matched his memory exactly.
Real Madrid 3, Valencia 0.
That meant the eighty million dollars he had spread across different bets was about to return at least three times over.
"Are you okay?"
A cool voice, touched with the faintest trace of concern, reached him from behind the bar.
Bruce stopped and turned.
Molly was standing there, her dark eyes clear and focused on him.
He gave her a huge smile.
"I'm fine. Oh, right. Here."
He pulled out a slip of paper he'd already written up earlier and handed it to her.
"That's my phone number and my email address. Get in touch with me later. I really do know J. K. Rowling, and I can introduce you."
After seeing her take it, he said goodbye and hurried out of the bar.
Molly watched him disappear into the night.
Then she unfolded the note in her hand. The paper was slightly wrinkled, faintly warm, and marked with neat handwriting.
For some reason, she felt strangely relieved.
"Molly, come help clean up. Most of the customers are leaving."
"Coming, Dad."
She answered at once, slipped the note into her pocket, and came out from behind the counter to help.