A Guy Walks Into My Bar Read online

  Because as much as I like the chase, I do have my limits.

  I want Dean.

  But I also want him to want this thing between us as much as I do.

  I have one more move, one way to tell. Make it crystal clear that this would have a beginning and an end. I have a feeling that’s what he wants—an escape clause with zero loopholes.

  “This was fun. And I know better than anyone how important work is. If you want to perform at the highest level, you have to eliminate distractions.”

  At that, he tilts his head, curious. “What do you mean exactly?”

  I shrug like it’s nothing, even though this is kind of a big deal—the pact I have with my teammates. “We came so damn close to making the playoffs last season and missed by this much.” I hold up my thumb and forefinger. “All because we came out of training camp weak. We lost a bunch of games early on, and even though we had a killer second half of the season, it wasn’t quite enough. So, we made a pact, some of the other guys and me. No distractions. No hooking up during training camp and into the start of the season. It’ll let us focus on the game.”

  “Focus is important. A man needs to be able to do his job.”

  “Exactly. My job is everything to me because it means I can take care of my family. Make my mom’s life easy. Give her all the things she never had when we were growing up.”

  “You do all that for her?”

  “Hell yeah. I have since I started in the NHL after college. Six years later, she’s living the life she deserves in the house of her dreams, and is married again to a good guy who respects her and adores her. As he should. So, yeah, making sure I can perform at the highest level on the ice is the most important thing in the world to me.”

  “That’s great that you can do that. She must be proud of you.”

  There’s no joking or teasing now, just earnestness, and I like it, so I continue laying it on the line for him. “For me, I’m over here with Emma being a supportive big brother. But I wouldn’t mind one last red-hot, smoking night or two before I shut it all down before camp.” I look at the sky, stroking my chin. “If only I could find the right guy. Maybe someone who doesn’t want strings either.”

  My eyes sweep over Dean.

  He draws a deep breath. “No strings?”

  I slash a hand through empty air. “Nada.”

  “And you said you’re only here for one week?”

  “Not even. Only five more days and then I leave.” I flap my arms like I’m flying away.

  A flicker of a smile crosses Dean’s handsome face as he asks, “Back to America?”

  “Me and all of my charm. Gone, baby, gone.”

  “You’re persistent. I’ll give you that. Must be quite an asset for your job.”

  I stretch my arms above my head, my shirt riding up, revealing another one of my work assets. Or rather, a preview to six more of them. Let him watch and see what I’ve got going on in the abs department. I know what these cost me in crunches and gym time. All worth it for the fire in his eyes.

  I lower my arms, because that’s enough eye candy to whet his appetite.

  “Speaking of jobs, you have to get back to work. And while you’re mixing martinis, you should give some thought to my proposition.”

  “Is that what you think I’ll be doing?”

  “You’re a thinker. Yes, that’s what you’ll be doing.”

  “And you’re a full-speed-ahead kind of guy.”

  “Yes. Yes, I am.”

  Dean hums, and I can see him mulling over my offer, so I leave one last lure for him.

  “Besides, I have a busy day tomorrow. I shouldn’t be out too late anyway. Emma and I are going for afternoon tea at Fortnum & Mason. Aren’t you proud? So English of us.”

  He laughs, sliding instantly back into that easy zone he lives in most of the time. His whole body moves with his laugh.

  I just want him to do it again and again.

  “I am quite impressed,” Dean says, then his lips curve into the start of a grin, and I swear I can feel him bending. “But tea’s not something we take lightly. You’ll have to mind yourself.”

  There it is.

  A spark.

  “You’re exactly right,” I say, latching onto this potent possibility. “I’m going to be completely lost. Who knows what I’ll mess up?”

  “So true. I wouldn’t want you to be overwhelmed by all the choices.”

  His smirk tells me this is the path to what I want—another chance with him, without him fully admitting that he’s taking it. Maybe because of his rules, maybe for some other reason. I don’t know why he’s still reluctant, given our crazy chemistry, but I do know he’s finding it harder to deny me.

  “Do you know how hard it is for an American to have tea without an Englishman there to help? English breakfast, Earl Grey, blah, blah, blah. Who can tell it all apart without the help of a Brit?”

  Dean’s grin widens. “Right. It’s just like being in France or Japan or Portugal and needing a translator.”

  “See? I knew you’d get it.”

  “I get it completely. You need an Englishman to help you decide whether it is the cream or the jam that goes first on your scone.”

  I had no clue there was a set order. “Yes, that. Exactly. As you can see, how else could a barbarian like myself enjoy a proper afternoon tea?”

  “I can’t even imagine how you would,” Dean answers, then whispers, “The scone tastes the same either way.”

  “Whatever you say.” I grin because it’s looking like he’s saying yes.

  We stand on the street, as crowds walk by with their shopping bags and talk about the great weather.

  This is it, my chance to seal this sort-of date with Dean. The man doesn’t seem opposed to public displays of affection, so I go for it.

  I grab the back of his head and bring him close, giving him a hot, hard, hungry kiss that I hope leaves him wanting more.

  I whisper against his lips, “I will see you tomorrow.”

  Dean blinks, looking frazzled, maybe even as rattled as I feel. Then he nods. “Yes. You will.”

  And I want to punch the air. But I restrain myself, keeping it cool. “I’ll need your number to text you the info.”

  Dean types it into my phone then takes a deep breath. “All right. Tomorrow, then.” He licks his lips. “Fitz.”

  Yes, there’s my name again, and it sounds so damn good the way he says it—like sex and desire on his tongue.

  He turns to walk away, but before he covers five feet, he spins around and returns. With a resolute expression and dark eyes fixed on me, he takes out his wallet and fishes around. He finds a bill and presses it into my hand, curling my fingers around it. “You won the bet. Softball is great.” There’s a pause, then he taps his finger to his bottom lip, humming in consideration. “Or really, I suppose there’s something about how we played the game that worked for me.”

  As much as it goes against my nature, I don’t touch him. I don’t kiss him, and I don’t say a word. I let my crooked grin do the talking as he enjoys having the last word—an admission that he wants me the same damn way I want him.

  I watch as he walks away this time.

  It’s a great view.

  I can’t enjoy it too much, though, because a familiar voice pops up behind me.

  “I’d say that was successful.”

  I whip around, and there’s Emma with shopping bags full of used books.

  “What luck that there was a used bookstore right down the road,” she says. “And that I just happened to see my brother making out in the street.”

  I grin. “Why hide my talents when the public should see them?”

  She laughs. “You’re insufferable.”

  “And you’re a little sneak.”

  “Not a sneak. Just an excellent wingwoman.”

  I want to disagree, but I can still taste Dean’s kiss on my mouth. Then, of course, there’s his number in my phone.

  And tea tomorrow.
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  And the promise of something else too, if my kiss worked the way I hope it did.

  9

  Dean

  A man cannot survive a force of nature without reinforcements.

  When a hurricane barrels toward your city, you batten down the hatches.

  The same strategy applies to Hurricane Fitz.

  So I make sure that I squeeze in time for a run before I’m due at The Magpie. Running centers me. Clears my head. Gives me time to think.

  After all, I’m a thinker, as he said.

  I scoff at that label as I run alongside the Thames, logging another mile as I go.

  But he’s right. That’s my style—I contemplate.

  As I run, I imagine a sheet of paper, and I’m sketching out the pros and cons of a few red-hot, smoking nights with a visitor who’s taking off soon.

  On the one hand, I don’t date younger guys.

  On the other hand, we’re not going to have a relationship. Also, he’s only four years younger, as I learned today.

  On the one hand, he’s a customer, and that’s against the rules.

  On the other hand, he can’t be a customer after the end of this week.

  On the one hand, he’s leaving in five days.

  On the other hand, he’s also leaving in five days.

  “What’s the worst that can happen in such a short time?” I ask out loud.

  “That is an excellent question. Inquiring minds want to know.”

  I swivel around, slowing my pace as my mate Sam comes alongside. We started the run together, but I peeled ahead, and now he’s caught up to me.

  “Talking out loud? Still hearing voices in your head?” Sam’s dark eyes glint as usual. He grins like he’s got a secret that no one else knows.

  “I was drawing an important conclusion,” I say.

  “Do tell. Was it about drinks or cooking or the state of the world? Or wait! Was it some piece of secondhand furniture you can’t decide whether to buy or not? Or maybe a book you want, and you’re going to go read twenty reviews before you pull the trigger on a nine-pound purchase?”

  “Are you my friend? Or have you switched to my foe?”

  He claps me on the back as we run. “In two short years of knowing you, I’ve learned that you deliberate on everything,” he says.

  I slow down as we near the edge of Jubilee Gardens. “If you must know, I was debating whether I ever wanted to play pool in your pub again.”

  “And you decided Sticks and Stones is the only way to go. Very nice, my man. Very nice.” He narrows his eyes. “But I bet you’re lying.”

  “Dickhead,” I mutter.

  “I see you’re picking up our American lingo. Excellent.”

  “We use ‘dickhead’ here in the UK too,” I point out to my friend who opened a pub a couple of years ago with his then-wife, an English woman who just put him through the wringer in a hellish divorce. But hey, he got the bar. “On account of having so many dickheads here in London,” I say as I wiggle my brows.

  “Ouch. Who’s the foe now?”

  “Sorry, not sorry. You had it coming.”

  “That is true. Anyway, don’t tell me what you’re pondering. I’ll just imagine it’s whether you should buy new cookware or the latest political thriller.”

  “The ribbing. Dear God, the ribbing.” I groan, scrubbing a hand across my face before I shoot him a look. “If you must know, I’m contemplating a hookup.”

  He scoffs. “What’s to ponder? If you like the person, and the energy is there, go for it. But no clingers, K?”

  “Never again.”

  He points to the edge of the park and the path leading to his flat. “Come by this week. Play a round. Try not to hustle all my patrons.”

  I bring my hand to my heart. “Me? Hustle your patrons? Never.”

  “You’re the hustler. Catch you later, man.”

  After the run, I continue my contemplation over a shower.

  Though the shower isn’t the most conducive place for weighing pros and cons.

  Showers, and the freedom to exercise one’s imagination, usually lead to the pro column.

  Once dressed, I head to work, where, fling or no fling, I have to pay the piper.

  The piper glances at me all night while she mixes drinks, giving me I know what you did this afternoon eyes as she zips past me. But it’s Saturday night, and there isn’t a moment to chat or for her to harass me until after we close.

  As I tally the receipts, I lose track a few times of the final take.

  Thanks a lot, Hurricane Fitz.

  “Hey, earth to Dean. Are you going to help me mop?”

  I look up from the laptop and meet Maeve’s gaze. She’s put up all the chairs already. “You’ve been somewhere else all night, and I think I know why.”

  “Oh, do you now?”

  Her smile’s mischievous. “Someone’s thinking about a certain customer.”

  I laugh.

  If she only knew.

  Except . . . wait. She does know. I shoot her my best death glare. “You tried to trip me up.”

  Maeve dares to look at me ever so innocently. “Me, who asked you to mop?”

  “Yes. You. You engineered the whole thing at the expo today. You were talking to Emma last night.”

  “Ohh. You know his sister’s name.”

  “Yes, he mentioned her today—”

  Maeve bursts out laughing. “That is soooo sweet that you know her name.”

  “He was talking about her. It would be hard not to know her name.”

  “And now you’re talking about her. Want to pick out monogrammed towels with him next?” She bats her lashes.

  I shake my head adamantly. “Things that will never happen.”

  “Fine. Maybe not towels. How about sharing shirts?”

  I arch one brow at her. “You were once my friend, right? Once upon a time, like in the dark ages?”

  “You pegged him as my type and tried to trip me up. That whole you’re so going down and your type bit. Serves you right that now you can’t get enough of him.”

  “That is not even remotely the case.”

  She points at me, glee written all over her features. “It is. So, pay up now. Did you shag him already?”

  “No,” I say, shutting the laptop.

  “You didn’t? I’m shocked. But you still owe me.”

  I tap my chin. “Is there anything in the rules about what happens when your business partner and former best friend tries to make you lose? I mean, why else would he have shown up at some random bar expo?”

  She flashes puppy-dog eyes at me, trying so damn hard to school her expression. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  I don’t blink. “Seriously? That’s the best you’ve got?” I stare her down and imitate, “I have no idea what you’re talking about . . .”

  “Dean, maybe you’ve been working too much. You’re starting to imagine things. Though if you’re admitting that something happened between you and that guy . . .” She points at the mop.

  I shake my head. “I’m not admitting anything. Not until you admit that you and Emma set me up. If I grabbed your phone right now, I bet I’d see a text thread about where I was at the expo today.”

  Maeve gives a satisfied Cheshire-cat grin. “If such a text thread did exist, it’d already have been deleted.”

  “You do know that’s kind of playing dirty. Getting me like that.”

  She shrugs. “It’s what you tried to do to me last night. I just happen to be better at the game.” She hands me the mop. “You might as well get to scrubbing. And while you do, you can tell me all about your romantic make-out session on the streets of London. I want to live vicariously through you. Now, tell me. Was it swoon-worthy? Did he melt you? Make your knees go weak?”

  “My knees don’t go weak. And I don’t melt. That’s not a thing. Plus, it was just a kiss.”

  “Aha! So you admit it. Start mopping.”

  With a beleaguered sigh, I grab
the mop, admitting she won this round. At least this is one of the easier chores on her list of consequences. And truthfully, I’d end up telling her everything anyway.

  “Give me the details,” she says as she cleans the counter. “When are you seeing him again?”

  I dip the mop in the bucket. “It isn’t like that. It was just a one-time thing,” I say, though as I try that on for size, the prospect sounds awful. A few hot kisses were not enough. I want the whole hurricane, storm and all.

  Maeve smirks. “Liar.”

  She’s always been able to see right through me, ever since we met at uni more than ten years ago and hit it off straightaway.

  “Why don’t you just date him? I mean, yeah, you’d have to buy me my jukebox. And do a hell of a lot of chores. But it wouldn’t be that bad. He’s so delish. Plus, I looked him up. He has a great rep and contributes to a lot of charities—rescue animals, cancer research, LGBTQ teens.”

  I look from the spit-shined floor to her, impressed with this new intel. “Is that so?”

  “Yes. He likes to give back. Which I happen to think is lovely. Along with his face,” she says playfully.

  “Yes, both qualities are quite lovely, Maeve,” I say, and I mean it. His background is appealing, even though it doesn’t matter much for a fling. Still, it’s good to know he’s not a selfish prick.

  “But he’s young,” I say, moving the mop around the floor. “They always want more, and more isn’t my style. The bar, the loan . . . You know how it goes—more is distracting.”

  Maeve stops her cleaning, her tone softer. “You can’t look at every guy you’re interested in like he might be another Dylan.”

  Except I can, and I do. “I don’t want to, but Dylan didn’t start out saying he wanted more. He started casually. How can I trust this wouldn’t be the same? That sooner or later Fitz wouldn’t start talking about love?”

  I shudder at the thought.

  Love makes people do stupid things. It makes them lose sight of what matters.

  Maeve closes the distance between us, curling a hand on my shoulder. “But this isn’t about love, our least favorite four-letter word, my friend.” She sets her head on my shoulder and sighs. I stroke her hair briefly, knowing that she’s got her own issues with that word. When the last guy broke her heart, it took all my self-control not to knock him senseless when he walked in here and tried to make it up to her. Instead, I simply kicked him out and told him never to come round again.