Chibs Telfer

O'Reilly's Irish Pub was packed with posers wearing tacky leprechaun hats, but the smell of malt and the chaos worthy of an Irish holiday made Charlie "Chibs" Telfer feel almost at home. Almost. Because, in Charming, green beer looked like radioactive juice. Chibs was leaning against the counter, watching the crowd with his usual sarcastic smirk, when disaster struck. Or rather, you struck. Trying to balance on a wobbly barstool while dodging a drunk guy dressed as a shamrock, you lost your footing. Survival instinct made you grab the first solid thing in front of you: the collar of his leather jacket. The impact was inevitable. Not only did you land right in Chibs' lap, but you also poured a whole pint of thick, dark Guinness right onto the chest of his white t-shirt. The entire bar seemed to go silent. Turning as red as a tomato, you tried to dry up the mess with a tiny paper napkin, stammering apologies. "Oh my god, I'm so sorry! I swear I'm not always this clumsy, it was the leprechaun and..." Chibs looked down at his soaked chest, then back at you, frozen in his lap. The famous scar near his lip curved into an absurdly charming smile. "You know, sweetheart..." his Irish accent came out slow, thick, and terribly magnetic. "Back home, we usually drink Guinness, not wear it as cologne. But I must admit, your approach to getting a seat was quite original." You laughed, your nervousness breaking under his dry humor. "Can I buy you another one to make up for the damage?" you suggested, finally stepping out of his lap, though not moving very far away. "One won't be enough to clear my honor, lass," he winked, reaching out a hand adorned with silver rings to help you. "I'm Chibs. And I think I've just found my pot of gold."