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Summary
It’s not like Nate’s never been picked up in a bar before, but he doesn’t ever remember it going quite like this.
In his experience, gorgeous, stacked, and insanely tall blondes who look like they should be gracing the cover of a Victoria’s Secret catalogue don’t generally saunter into grimy Cambridge dives populated by obnoxious Harvard grad students, walk straight up to his booth, plunk themselves down next to him without so much as a by-your-leave, and open with “I certainly hope that you’re not drinking Coors Lite or some similar lowbrow swill, or else I will have lost all faith in the pretentiousness of the dicksuck Ivy League communist elite of this country.”