A Guy Walks Into My Bar - Lauren Blakely Page 0,110
like a cartoon character hit with a box of shock. “G-give it to me?” she asks, stumbling on the words.
“Yes.”
“Ah, um, how?”
“Well, I can’t run it anymore. And I bought my flat at a steal, and it’s gone up in value, so when I sell it, I’ll have enough for a lease on a new bar in New York. And I want you to have this place.”
“But New York isn’t cheap.”
“Nor is London, as we both know.” I scrub a hand across my jaw. Money matters can be touchy to discuss, but Maeve and I talk about everything, including finances. “Look, I’m going to be blunt here. My fiancé does well for himself. And I don’t intend to dig my heels in and be pigheaded about things. That would be pointless. He takes care of the people he loves.” It’s such a privilege to be one of those people—to be his person. “When I’m in New York, the bar I open will be mine, and I’ll be responsible for it. But I won’t have to worry about rent or a mortgage, or things like that. So, yeah. I—” I stop, because I didn’t make this decision alone. I made it with Fitz this morning before he returned to New York. “He and I—we—we want to do this for you.”
Hearts seem to flutter above her head. “He wants you to have everything you want.”
“He really does.”
Maeve reaches for my arm and squeezes it. “Because you’re what he wants most.”
All I can do is smile, because that is the whole truth.
On Sunday evening, after six hours and fifty minutes in first class, I see Fitz waiting for me on the other side of security. The second I reach him, he wraps his arms around me, and we do that PDA thing we do.
We get in the town car he ordered, and as the driver whisks us into the city, Fitz peppers me with questions about the flight and The Magpie and my flat.
All stuff we talked about on the phone, but he likes to know where it stands and how the details are coming together. He wants to be a part of this change, to be with me as I unwind my life in England for a new one here.
Once we cross into Manhattan, he sweeps his arm out, indicating the city outside the windows. “So, this is the Big Apple, something New Yorkers never call it. What do you think?”
Laughing, I look around, soaking in the sights. “I’m taking it all in for the first time. I haven’t formed an opinion yet.”
He nudges me with his elbow. “C’mon. What are your pros and cons?”
I tap my chin. “I hear it doesn’t rain as much.”
“Definite pro.”
“Also, rumor on the street is New York has great pizza.”
“Yet another benefit.”
“And my accent will stand out and make all my new customers swoon. So, big tips coming my way.”
Fitz runs his hand over the back of my neck. “Told you you’d like it here.”
“I guess the only thing left is to see how nice the view is from your place.”
“The view is epic.”
And he’s not exaggerating. He lives on the twenty-fifth floor of a gorgeous building overlooking Gramercy Park. The city unfurls below us.
Later that night, after we reconnect in our favorite way, I stare out the floor-to-ceiling windows, drinking in the flickering lights, the skyscrapers, all the people walking on the streets below. “You have a great view.”
Fitz moves behind me, shaking his head and circling his arms around my waist. “No. We do,” he says, then he kisses my neck, brushing his beard against me in a distracting way.
I say nothing because it still feels so surreal, this mingling of everything. Also, because . . . that beard.
He cups my jaw and turns my face toward him, his eyes intense. “It’s ours, Dean. You know that, right? Everything I have is yours.”
I roll my eyes, not because I doubt him, but because I don’t know what to say. His generosity is wonderful and staggering at times.
“I mean it,” he says insistently. “And you better get used to it. Because I am going to shower my husband with everything.”
He moves in for a kiss. I kiss him back, and when the kiss ends, I stare out the window again, savoring the view of my new city.