“I love St. Patrick’s Day!” the cute, drunk brunette told Dave. He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Behind them, the band played a treacly version of Danny Boy, with the crowd in the bar singing along to the few bits that people knew.

“My name’s Tina,” she said, leaning close. “Is that Guinness? I love Guinness!”

“It’s Murphy’s,” he muttered. “Guinness isn’t the only Irish stout, ye know.”

“Oh my gawd!” she squealed. “You’re Irish! Say something in Irish.”

“Sorry, I only speak English. And I’m not—”

Tina turned and shouted, “Hey, Mandy, this guy is Irish!”

Another drunk girl stumbled over. “I love Irish guys!” Her breath was worse than her friend’s, but she was also better looking so it evened out.

“Ah, bollocks,” Dave said, shrugging mentally. He smiled broadly and wrapped an arm around each girl. “Why don’t I buy you ladies a drink and tell you all about Ireland?”

They squealed and snuggled into him happily as he ordered the round. Now, he wasn’t about to tell them that he was really Scottish.