A Guy Walks Into My Bar Page 2

  He is the kind of man Maeve would call “sex on a stick.”

  In short? He’s my new target.

  I glance at Maeve, mixing a gin and tonic a few feet away. I catch her eye and mouth, You’re so going down, then tip my forehead to the man in question, raising a brow. “Your type,” I whisper.

  She answers with an epic eye roll before returning to her customers.

  She thinks no one here will tempt her tonight.

  And I’m about to show her how wrong she is. If she kisses this guy, there’s a list of chores waiting for her to pay up—painting that wall, sanding that table, reupholstering that stool. If she goes home with him, I’ll be on my way to the pool table. The two-tiered system keeps us both in check. With a bar that’s been a fixer-upper, the list of chores has been endless. The threat of a Saturday lost to scrubbing has kept me pretty chaste, at least in terms of customers.

  And I intend to stay that way.

  I check out my target. He’s moving through the crowd, peeling himself away from the women as they head to the loo and he heads straight for me. I stare as he struts, jeans clinging to his body, hugging his muscular legs.

  Oh yes, there is a definite strut in his walk.

  And oh yes, Maeve will lose tonight.

  Especially when she gets her eyes on his ink. I have a feeling that those tribal-band tattoos disappear somewhere beyond his broad shoulders.

  And I wouldn’t mind seeing where.

  Shit, what am I thinking?

  I need to focus. This is an acquisition for Maeve. Not eye candy for me.

  I shake away thoughts of his full lips as the man sidles up and sits on the stool in front of me.

  “Welcome to The Magpie. What’s your poison?”

  “Depends what’s good around here,” he says in a raspy American accent. His dark-blue eyes roam the taps.

  I’m about to make a suggestion when he meets my gaze. There’s a glint in his irises as he says, “How about a Bud?”

  I flinch at this sacrilege. “No. Just no.”

  His lips twitch. “Maybe a Corona, then?”

  “That won’t happen either,” I say, stern. “We have standards here.”

  “How about Pabst?” The question comes out thoroughly deadpan, and that’s when I realize he’s playing me.

  And I can go toe-to-toe.

  I point to the door. “If you keep this up, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

  He laughs, a warm rumble of a sound. “Beer snob. I like it.”

  “And let’s be frank, beer snobbery is completely warranted.”

  “Couldn’t agree more. What about music snobbery though? Is that warranted too?”

  “Hell, no. Listen to whatever floats your boat. Jazz, show tunes, rap, or anything by Sam Smith, Daley, or Leon Bridges.”

  “Excellent choices. And how do you feel about book snobbery then? Is that acceptable?”

  “Never. Reading is heaven, and everyone should do it often and indiscriminately.” I realize that I haven’t even gotten the man his drink because I’m having too much fun talking to him.

  But I’m doing it for Maeve.

  Still, I clear my throat and say, “Let’s get you that drink.”

  “How’s the stout selection? When in England and all.”

  I’ve officially struck gold. Maeve’s not only a sucker for American accents and men quick with their wit, but she’s especially keen on Americans who do their research and make classic choices.

  Of course, I’m also into all of that, but that’s not the point. I won’t be Svengali’d by his easy charm again.

  “We’ve got some great ones,” I say. “What’s your style?”

  He runs his hand through his beard. How would that beard feel against my face?

  Damn it, snap out of it.

  “Surprise me,” he says, his voice laced with daring.

  He meets my eyes and winks.

  And oh no.

  Oh, no, no, no.

  I made a critical error in my choice for Maeve.

  He might be the perfect blend of sexy, rugged, and charming for her, but judging by the hungry way he’s looking at me, she’s not the right one for him.

  So I should step away.

  Get the guy his drink and leave him be.

  “I’ll get you something good,” I say.

  “I look forward to that.”

  Except I can’t seem to stop flirting with him, and it seems he suffers the same affliction when it comes to me.

  As I grab a glass for his stout, I tell myself what not to do.

  Don’t flirt anymore.

  Don’t trade quips and banter.

  And do not exchange numbers, or anything else.

  He might just be friendly. Bars tend to have that effect on people.

  Besides, this is Maeve’s night to lose, not mine.

  I turn and hand him his drink. I should be scanning the crowd for another target for Maeve, but he leans forward on the bar to grab the glass, making the muscles in his biceps tighten, and making it impossible for me to look elsewhere. I’m such a sucker for great arms.

  “This is excellent,” he says with a grin. “Seems you have good taste.”

  “Yes,” I say, but I’m thoroughly distracted by those ridiculous bicep muscles that flex again as he puts the drink down. He catches me looking, and his grin goes crooked.

  Crooked and wicked.

  Look, I know the effect I have on men. With the game, it’s never been a problem in terms of supply. Plenty of guys have asked, and plenty have tried. But ever since I decided I wasn’t going to be getting distracted, I’ve been on a streak I don’t intend to break.

  The stakes are too high. Sure, we have our gotcha rules, but we implemented them because the business matters too much, and if we start sleeping around, The Magpie might get a reputation.

  We don’t want to be that bar.

  And I know the price that distractions make you pay.

  I won’t let them into my life.

  This man, and his mouth-watering arms, won’t be any different.

  “So, are you out here for business or pleasure?” I busy myself by cleaning a glass, keeping the conversation as standard as bartender chat can be.

  The American leans back and takes another swig of stout. “Pleasure,” he says with a twinkle in his blue eyes. “Fortunately, I don’t have much work to do while I’m here.”

  It’s bait. He wants to talk about himself. I should hate how obvious that entrée is, but he makes it seem unbearably charming.

  “What field are you in?” I ask, lifting my chin. “You look like you do a lot of lifting. Let me guess—professional mover?”

  He smirks. “Not quite.”

  I arch a brow, studying him like I’m considering other professions. “Ah, I bet you carry water coolers. Do you work for the Water Cooler Association?”

  “Do they have a Water Cooler Association, and if so, how do I get involved?”

  “Oh, I’m sure we can find a sign-up form for you somewhere,” I say, and bloody hell, why did I pick him? I need to stop right now.

  But I don’t. “Let me try again…carpenter. You’re definitely a carpenter. Wait. No. You work in a timber yard.”

  “All excellent choices. All wrong too. I play hockey in the NHL. Defenseman in New York.”

  So that’s where the hard body comes from. Professional hockey. And if his arms look like that, I can only imagine what the sport’s done to his chest. His abs. His ass.

  Best to put some distance between myself and this man who is far too much my type.

  “Ah, that sport with sticks,” I say, stepping back, a slight shift in body language toward other patrons.

  He takes another swallow of his drink. “So, you’re a sports snob.”

  “Yes. I like polo. Only polo,” I tease. “And cricket.”

  “I bet you’d look good on a horse.” And somehow that sounds filthy and enticing.

  Must activate deflector shield. />
  “I prefer my feet firmly on the ground, thank you,” I say, a telltale burn heating the back of my neck.

  “Well, there’s always hockey. That’s definitely on the ground.”

  “Sure. Right. I should pick it up.”

  He laughs. “Have you even seen a game?”

  I can’t resist it—the challenge in his tone. I meet his gaze head-on. “Frankly, there’s never been anything interesting about it to me.”

  He smirks. “I bet I could change your mind.”

  “And why’s that?”

  “Because it’s the best sport there is, and because it’s fucking awesome when I play it.”

  He is cocky, and it’s too sexy for words.

  But I won’t let him best me in this battle of wits.

  “I dunno,” I say. “Isn’t hockey sort of uncivilized?”

  I expect him to recoil at my dig, but he just laughs. “All right, before you start ripping on my sport, I’m going to need your name.”

  Giving him my name feels personal. Giving him my name makes this go from flirty to dangerous.

  But a name isn’t breaking the rules or losing the game.

  And I can pull back.

  I always do.

  “Dean,” I tell him. “And I didn’t intend to offend your sensibilities. I suppose I’m just surprised you aren’t missing some teeth or something. I bet your dentist is pissed at you for not needing him.”

  He laughs so loud that it seems to fill up the bar. “Thank you for noticing my pearly whites. I make a habit of staying on top of things, both on and off the ice.”

  Ignore it . . . ignore the image of what he just said. No matter how hard it is.

  “By the same token, shouldn’t you be making martinis for James Bond and drinking tea? If we’re playing stereotypes,” he continues.

  “Is that your way of saying you want a martini? Because I make a fantastic one that will go to your head.”

  A groan seems to rumble up from his chest, and he murmurs his appreciation. And I am skating on thin ice right now.

  Must stop flirting.

  “Sounds like my kind of martini.”

  I return to his sport before talk of martinis goes to my head. Besides, hockey is an innocuous enough topic, since I know nothing about it. “Speaking of sports with sticks, isn’t the point of hockey just to get hit really hard all the time?”

  “The point is to hit the puck really hard,” he says. “Hitting the players is just a bonus.”

  “And you find this sort of heavy contact exhilarating, do you?”

  The guy grins, leaning closer. “Oh, I find all sorts of heavy contact exhilarating. Given the right party, of course.”

  Shit. We just jumped firmly over the dangerous line.

  And I need to reel this back in. Whatever it takes.

  I’m not going home with the hottest man I’ve ever seen walk into my bar.

  No matter what superhuman feats of resistance are required.

  3

  Fitz

  I didn’t come to England to get lucky.

  I came here to support Emma, my brilliant little sister, who’s earned the chance of a lifetime to study art in her favorite place in the world. I’m just here to be the best big brother I can.

  But getting lucky along the way?

  Well, I certainly wouldn’t say no.

  After all, I’ve worked damn hard to get here.

  Hockey is the reason why I should be getting lucky in England. We’re only one week away from training camp, and that’s when our pact kicks in.

  The pact that will expressly forbid getting lucky.

  So yes, while I didn’t come to England for a little action, I’m not opposed to it preseason.

  Not at all.

  I’m pretty much never opposed to physical activity, especially of the bedroom variety.

  But I can tell I’ve got my work cut out for me with Dean, and that’s exactly how I like it.

  A little challenge.

  A bit of a chase.

  That’s a huge fucking turn-on.

  I settle in at the bar, ready to do whatever it takes to get this man back to my hotel room.

  He’s all Michael B. Jordan—hot as fuck and even better to listen to with that insanely sexy accent. I’m not immune to a hot-as-sin accent, or a man with a quicksilver tongue.

  Because I’ve learned something about a man who isn’t afraid to give and take in a conversation. A man like that?

  He’ll give and take the same way in bed.

  In my pocket, my phone buzzes, and I check it to see a message.

  Emma: Seems like you found someone fun.

  I look down the bar and see my sister and her friend have settled there. A pretty brunette bartender is cracking jokes with them as she mixes a drink.

  Emma catches my eye before pointing to where Dean’s dealing with other customers. Then she’s tapping into her phone.

  Emma: I called it the second we walked in. You’re so into him.

  I roll my eyes. I’m used to the teasing about my love life. My three sisters have wanted to hook me up with every guy friend they’ve ever had.

  But I’m happy playing the field.

  Especially when there are hot British bartenders just waiting to be picked up.

  Dean grabs two different bottles and whips them around to make a cocktail. He moves them easily, quickly, almost like he’s performing a magic trick. The customers he’s mixing the drink in front of ooh and aah, clapping as he does a long pour. He finishes and hands the glass to an older woman at the other end of the bar. Then he pivots and heads my way. As he walks over, my lips curve up in a grin. Sure, I’m his customer, but he could have sent someone else to see if I needed a refill.

  I knew it. He’s totally hooked on me.

  He’ll be the perfect guy to blow off steam with right before training camp. Before the pact.

  He leans on the bar in front of me, eyeing my now empty glass.

  “So, I’m guessing you thought that was better than a Bud?”

  “Seems I did. You picked well for me,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest, letting him see the muscles earned from countless hard-core workouts.

  “I’ve done this for a few years. I’m good at reading customers.”

  “Yeah, I’d say you’re pretty damn good at that.”

  “Some things are easy to read.” His eyes are on me—where I want them.

  “I like it when that happens,” I say and the way this conversation is going right now, it’s time to reel him in. I take a quick glance around, then I say, “Glad I walked in here tonight. I’m digging the whole vibe.”

  Emphasis on vibe.

  Dean’s brown eyes spark in the light. “I’ll be sure to let the owner know you like The Magpie.”

  “I do,” I say. “Great bartenders too. Very . . . attentive.”

  Dean smirks, and the grin is so damn cheeky I want to kiss it off him with a punishing, devouring kind of kiss.

  “He’s very hands-on, the owner,” Dean says. “Likes to know what’s going on with the front of the house.”

  “Sounds like my kind of guy.”

  Dean grabs my glass for a refill without me asking. He’s back in moments with the full glass. “Had a feeling you’d want more.”

  “That's exactly what I want.” I take a drink of the fresh stout. “How late does this boss of yours have you working?”

  Another smirk from Dean comes my way and leaves my head spinning as he says, “Late. My boss works us pretty hard.”

  I’d like to work him hard.

  “I ought to talk to this guy. Tell him how impressed I am with his dedicated staff.”

  “I’m sure he’d appreciate that.” Dean laughs. “Especially since you’re already talking to him. I’m the owner.”

  “Oh, very clever. Well played.”

  “It was, admittedly, hard to resist.”

  I take a beat, then go for the close. “There are other things hard to resist,” I
say, my tone making my meaning clear.

  For a second, it looks like it costs him something to say the next words, but when they come out, they’re gravelly, smoky. “What sort of things?”

  “Tell me what time you get off, and I’ll show you.”

  He laughs, shaking his head, but it’s not a no. It’s more like What the hell have I gotten myself into? “But I don’t even know your name.”

  I extend a hand to shake. He looks at it like he’s considering it, then he clasps it.

  If I said there was a spark, that’d be cliché. It’s a goddamn handshake after all. I’ve given and received a million of them.

  But I do like the way he feels against me.

  I wouldn’t mind feeling his hands all over me.

  “Fitzgerald,” I say.

  He arches a brow. “Fitzgerald? Isn’t that a last name?”

  He says it like he’s busting me, and I dig it, the way that he seems to want to question everything.

  “Yeah. It is. But everyone calls me that.”

  “And what does your sister call you . . . Perhaps, is it James?”

  I think I just blushed at the way he said that, all flirty. I glance down the bar and see my sister giggling with her bartender, both of them looking my way. Dean must have passed by them when he was working with the other customers and overheard Emma say my name.

  “My sisters call me James, yes. But you can call me Fitz.”

  Dean glances at my drink, then down the bar. The bartender’s smirking in his direction, looking pretty satisfied about something. Maybe even a little smug. Dean rolls his eyes at her, then turns back to me.

  “Look, Fitz. I’m going to be blunt. You are pretty much the hottest man to ever walk into my bar. You’re like one of those memes for a hot guy walking into a bar and all the ladies tossing their knickers at him.”

  “I don’t want their panties.”

  “Yes, I’m clear on that,” he says with a laugh. “But the thing is—I can’t go home with you. I don’t sleep with the customers.”

  I grin. “So, you’re saying you want to sleep with me.”

  “You’re relentless,” he says like he’s reining in a grin.

  And he’s right. Whether it’s a man in a bar or a play on the ice, I am relentless.