A Guy Walks Into My Bar Page 3

  And I always score.

  Dean’s grin disappears as he stares at me, heat in his eyes, giving me a look that I both love and hate at the same time.

  Because that look?

  It promises that challenge that turned me on in the first place.

  And it also promises me that nothing is happening tonight.

  "The thing is – it’s a rule,” he says. “And it’s a rule I intend to follow.”

  For a second, I let him think he’s won, that I’m going to walk away.

  Then, in a low voice, I say, “Rules are made to be broken. Or bent,” I say just for him. “You should bend your rules for me.”

  A twitch in his jaw.

  He wants this as much as I do, even if he won’t admit it.

  He wants this because there’s more here than insane physical attraction. There’s a spark that’ll make our physical connection out of this world. And I want what I want. Badly.

  “What makes you think you should be the one I break the rule for?”

  I give him nothing but the truth. “Because I’d make it worth your while.”

  His eyes stay on me like he’s studying me, possibly even memorizing me. Maybe that’s wishful thinking. Or maybe it’s reality, because he leans forward, a mere foot away now, his chiseled face so damn close to mine. He lowers his voice to a sultry bedroom whisper. “Of that, Fitz, I have no doubt.”

  And I am officially an inferno. A speechless, hot, bothered, and turned-on-as-hell inferno.

  Dean shrugs, grins, clears his throat. “But it’s a rule I won’t be breaking tonight.”

  He walks away to tend to other customers, and I watch him. I cannot look away.

  Because all I can think is—Dean, your challenge is accepted.

  When I leave a little later, I hand him a tip, then say, “I’ll see you . . . tomorrow night.”

  He meets my gaze, his eyes locked with mine. “Is that so?”

  “Yes. Yes, it is.”

  I walk out.

  Tomorrow can’t arrive fast enough.

  SATURDAY

  Also known as the day I don’t expect to see him again.

  Because, I swear, I’m not even thinking about him. Not at all. Not even a little bit.

  Fine, maybe a little.

  4

  Dean

  I’m waiting for my award.

  Top prize in Extraordinary Feats of Resistance.

  Because what I did last night? There should be an entire fleet of people arriving at the door of my flat, ready to congratulate me for resisting the sexiest man to walk into my bar, let alone enter the damn country.

  Thankfully, there’s nothing in the rules forbidding getting off to a customer.

  Nothing at all against thoughts of his hard body on mine. Or under mine—either image worked for me.

  Trouble is, I can picture him sauntering through The Magpie’s doors tonight, flashing those bedroom eyes my way.

  Will I be strong enough to resist him a second time?

  I better be.

  I just need to forget his humor, his swagger. Erase his easy banter.

  I have plenty more important things to dwell on anyway. Like the bar expo today, an event I’ve been eager to check out.

  Business only.

  I take the coldest shower I can stand, pull on some jeans and a casual polo shirt that I know looks damn good thanks to regular arm days at the gym, tuck my phone in my pocket, and head down three flights of stairs. London’s warm as usual on this summer day, and by the time I’ve stepped outside of my flat, the sun’s shining on the Thames a few streets away.

  It’s a short walk to Coffee O’clock, the perfect midway spot between my flat and Dad’s. Inside, the intoxicating scents of coffee, tea, and flaky pastries greet me.

  I haven’t even made it through the front door yet when I catch the attention of Penny, Coffee O’clock’s long-standing owner. She’s behind the counter, making drinks. She gives me a smile as she chats up a regular, then waves me over after she finishes ringing him up.

  When I reach her, I survey the board. “What are the chances I could get a decent cuppa in here?”

  “Terrible, absolutely terrible,” she says with a gleam in her eyes, crinkled at the corners.

  “Also, can you please change the name to Tea O’clock?”

  “Only if you can stop hating on coffee.”

  I pretend to consider that, tapping my chin. “Not a chance. So I’ll take two of your special secret Stonehenge Breakfast Mix that you’ll someday give me the name of the supplier?”

  “Ha, as if I’d ever tell you where my tea leaves come from,” she says, scooping some out.

  “Someday you’ll spill your tea secrets.”

  “And until then I’ll happily brew them for you. Especially since I know you’re taking one to your dad,” she says with a smile as she brews the blend.

  “Ah, I appreciate you giving me a pass on account of Martin.”

  “I trust he’s still enjoying his retirement?”

  “Considering I can’t keep him off Tinder, he seems to be having a blast.”

  She drops her voice to a stage whisper. “Better tell him to swipe right on me.”

  “I’ll be sure to pass on the tip,” I say with a laugh, but something about the way Penny’s eyes sparkle tells me she might not totally be joking.

  She pours the tea, sets the cups down, then eyes the food case. “You know you want a scone today. Maybe two.”

  A quick scan of the options tells me the chia seed pudding and morning oats will be the best bet. Better on the heart for him, and, frankly, on the abs for me.

  Penny bags up the healthy options and tells me to hurry back.

  When I head outside, I’m already feeling the right amount of distance from Mr. Hockey Is Awesome and So Am I.

  The walk to Dad’s covers some of my other favorite spots.

  There’s the bookshop where, years ago, Dad bought me a copy of Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, after I’d read the first book from the library. Where just last week, I picked up a new Silicon Valley exposé of a high-flying start-up. (Who can resist the fall of an upstart that gets too big for its boots?)

  Up the street, I pass the park where I used to play rugby with my mates after school.

  Next is the secondhand furniture store that my friend Taron runs, a place where I like to hunt around for old nightstands and tables to refurbish.

  The walk settles me, and by the time I’ve climbed the flight of stairs to the place I used to live, my mind’s completely clear of distractions.

  “Tell me you didn’t do it!” Dad says as he opens the door. His eyes go straight to the bag in my hand. “You did it,” he says with a frown.

  “Did what?” I ask ever so innocently.

  He glowers at me. “Brought me Greek yogurt or a chia seed walnut salad with blueberries and quinoa that is going to make me twenty-five years younger.”

  “What did blueberries ever do to you?” I ask as I hand him the chia seed pudding and morning oats.

  He eyes them skeptically. “What is this?”

  I grin. “Breakfast. Sit. Eat. It’s healthy.”

  “It’s weird.”

  “Yes, but that’s how we’re doing it these days. Keep up with me, old man.”

  He rolls his eyes. “So much cheek.”

  “I wonder where I learned it from.”

  “It’s a mystery to me too.”

  We sit at the table, where I dive into the chia seed pudding while Dad takes the morning oats.

  He dips his spoon into the oats, looking at me like I’ve told him we have to remove his kidney. “Is it so hard to buy a scone?”

  “It’s not hard to buy a scone. It’s quite easy. You take out the money, and you get the scone. But see, I can’t eat scones for every meal. And you can’t either. You need to look sharp for the ladies.”

  “And you need to look sharp for the lads. Speaking of—anyone catching your eye these days? Seems like it�
�s been forever since that last guy. What was his name? Damian?”

  I wave a hand. “Dylan, and that was ages ago.”

  Before Maeve and I bought The Magpie and made the pact, we were both just bartenders in our twenties. And, frankly, bartenders in their twenties—especially attractive bartenders—can get plenty of action.

  Like when I worked at The Olde Shoe, and in walked Dylan, five years younger, clever and confident. He’d come by, flirt with me all night, and then we’d wind up going out to a club.

  Then to my place, since he had twenty roommates or so.

  Let’s keep this simple, I’d said. Just keep it fun.

  Of course, he’d said.

  Soon it became more regular. He’d invite himself over to cook dinner. He’d stay the night, and he’d want to make breakfast, spend the day together.

  Suddenly, Dylan wasn’t just making dirty talk with me at the bar.

  He was starting to hint at other things.

  Other levels.

  Levels like love.

  That set off my get-the-hell-out-of-there radar.

  I wasn’t in love with him. Hadn’t been with anyone, for that matter. All the guys seemed to want more than I was willing to give.

  I cut things off with Dylan. And when Maeve and I bought The Magpie a few months later, she’d just come out of a bad relationship that had rattled her, so we’d decided on a pact to eliminate distractions.

  The number one rule is don’t mix business with pleasure. You can’t run the risk of falling for a customer who might come back too often, show up at the wrong times, or leave a terrible review. Best to keep those worlds separate.

  So we set our rules and our goals—focus on the bar and add in some friendly stakes to keep things interesting.

  It’s not like I’m celibate. A hookup here or there is just what the doctor ordered some nights. But I’m thirty-one now, and I steer clear of the younger guys who see a future in me that I’m not ready to share—they see someone steady, stable, with a business and a flat he owns and doesn’t share with three, or twenty, of his mates.

  It’s a life I’ve worked hard for. One I’ve sought out. One I’m having at last, and I don’t want to chance losing.

  I take a bite of my breakfast as Dad continues on with his matchmaker routine. “Fine, not Dylan. But there are plenty of other men out there. A whole city full of fascinating people. That is, if you leave the bar.”

  I snort. If only Dad knew about last night.

  Dad grins. “Oh? Perhaps you’ve already found someone?”

  I shake my head. “Definitely not.”

  “Liar.”

  I huff. “How do you do that? See right through me?”

  “I wonder. Maybe because I raised you? Also, did you forget I was a reporter for thirty-five years? I know how to read people.”

  “You know how to read financials and CEOs. You were a business reporter.”

  “And I know how to read my son. Who is the lucky fella?”

  I laugh at his persistence. “No one. Just this absolutely frustrating American who walked into my bar last night and had the nerve to flirt with me.”

  Dad feigns shock. “Flirting with a handsome, quick-witted, sarcastic bartender. The goddamn nerve of the Yankees.”

  “Can you believe it? Some nights I have to beat them off with a stick.”

  He strokes his jaw. “It’s the family curse, son. We have no choice but to live with it. I’ve had to spend my entire life fending off the ladies.”

  “Yeah, seems like Penny wants to work her magic on you. She was trying to get me to buy you a scone.”

  “I knew I liked her for a good reason. But you’re not distracting me.” Dad wags his oat-covered spoon in my direction. “Will you see this absolutely frustrating American again?”

  I shrug. “I don’t think so. It’s all for the best. Too much going on at work. I don’t have time for frustrating Americans. Especially ones who are too cocky for their own good.”

  “All I’m saying is, don’t let all the opportunities pass you by. I’ve always admired your work ethic, but it’s okay to get out there a little sometimes, meet that special someone.”

  I roll my eyes. I go out when I want to. I don’t go out when I don’t want to, and I’m perfectly content with that. “And it’s okay to skip the scone. We’re both full of sage advice today. Now, I should nip off, or I’ll be late.”

  “Thanks for the breakfast. I think,” he says as he puts down his bowl of oats. I’ve got a feeling it’s going to end up either covered in brown sugar or tossed in the rubbish bin right after I leave.

  “You’re welcome. I think.”

  He waves me off with one last comment about “keeping my eyes open.”

  The man’s stubborn, I’ll give him that.

  Maybe, possibly, I take after him in that regard.

  But better him than the other person responsible for half my genes.

  I leave and make the quick walk to the Tube. During the ride, I turn over his advice, weighing the pros and cons of it. I love the man, but it’s a little ironic for him to be trying to encourage me to find a special someone, especially since he didn’t date for years until I finally convinced him to get on the apps recently. Part of it is probably an old habit for him, thinking he still needs to be looking out for me and only me. Ever since Mum took off for Australia after a whirlwind affair with a man from Sydney when I was thirteen—one that went tits up a few years later—it’s been Dad and me against the world. He did whatever it took to support us, whether it meant taking on extra freelance assignments or avoiding romantic entanglements, something he claims he didn’t do, but I know him—his focus was singular in those years, and I suppose it worked out as he’d hoped. He raised a good kid, and without him, I know the path off the rails would have been too easy.

  More proof that sometimes you just need to stay the course and focus on what’s important.

  Business.

  Friendships.

  Family.

  But love?

  Seems to me that following your heart is foolish and leads to stupid decisions like abandoning your family to go halfway around the world.

  Mum’s on her fourth marriage now.

  Every time, she says that guy is the one.

  As if there’s a one.

  That’s why I won’t be the one to lose in my game with Maeve. And that’s what I ought to be focusing on. Getting her in our game, since I suspect she was trying to trip me up last night.

  It’s like she hears my thoughts because the second I’m off the Tube and back outside, my phone buzzes with a message.

  Maeve: Sure you don’t need to pick up supplies for some chores later? You and that American seemed pretty chummy.

  Dean: Further proof that you will be the one to lose this battle. If I can withstand that man, I can withstand anything.

  Maeve: How can you be so sure that’s the last you’ve seen of him?

  Dean: Because I’m all business today. Now, about the bar expo. What am I looking for?

  Maeve: You’re all work and no play, Dean. What have I told you about that?

  Dean: That it means I’ll win our game?

  Maeve: You nearly lost last night. But no worries. I understand why. He’s quite foxy. Hard not to notice. Harder still to look away from. I’m curious though. Did you learn if his ink went all the way up to his shoulders? Down his back? To the V of his abs?

  Dean: Has anyone ever told you that you’re evil? Pure evil. Also, completely wicked too.

  Maeve: Only you, ever since uni. Also, I’m soooo going to win. You think you’re ice, but I know you.

  Dean: Impervious is my middle name. Now, what’s on your wish list, O Wicked One?

  Maeve: See if you can find us some cool specialty food and drink options. I’ll send you a checklist. Also, you should be on the lookout, too, for anything American. Foreign is an especially good sell. You know how HOT American goods are. Or should I say H-A-W-T?

  Dean
: I am a man on a mission tonight. Radar has been recalibrated to trip you up, witchy woman.

  By the time I reach the expo at the edge of Bankside, the crowd’s buzzing around the different stalls. I check them out, swinging by a booth with CBD-infused alcohol, another with vegan bar food, but nothing entices me.

  The next stall features an old-fashioned jukebox, fifties tunes warbling from the speakers.

  I snap a picture of it and send it off to her, along with a new text.

  Dean: I’m sure you would have loved this baby. Too bad you’ll have to buy me the pool table instead.

  I’m still chuckling to myself when I look up from the phone and spot a familiar set of shoulders.

  Maybe I’m seeing things at the end of the row.

  Maybe he’s just the one I wish I were seeing.

  The same one who invaded my thoughts so damn inconveniently after I went home last night.

  But when he turns around, I’m certain it’s the frustrating American.

  And he looks even better than he did last night.

  5

  Fitz

  This boozy festival wouldn’t be my first choice to spend a Saturday afternoon in London. Checking out the Tower or kicking back on a riverboat cruise is more my speed for vacay.

  But Emma insisted, saying getting the local feel would help her settle into the city, and this is local as hell, here in a neighborhood that feels very Old Blighty.

  “So, after this, I think I’ll head over to that used bookstore we passed earlier and see if they have the books I need for my art history class,” she says as we pass a stall advertising bar art. “Plus, the vibe was so Notting Hill. Maybe I’ll meet my own Hugh Grant.”