A Guy Walks Into My Bar - Lauren Blakely Page 0,121
that night of various bars to go to?” I ask.
“That’s your style, babe. You want to know why I was there?”
“Yeah. I do. That’s why I’m asking. I’m assuming it was just random. Was it? Random?”
He lifts a brow wolfishly. “Or are you thinking maybe I looked up the hottest bartenders in London? Found a website? Like a top ten list of sexy Brits. And I ran my finger over it, stopped, pointed at the one who looked like Michael B. Jordan, and said, ‘Damn, I hope he likes dick’?”
I press my palm over his mouth. “Shut up. Just shut up. You’re not allowed to speak anymore.”
He bites my palm, and when I remove my hand, he’s laughing.
“Oliver told me about The Magpie,” he says, still chuckling.
“Oliver? Really?”
Fitz nods.
“But I’d never met him. He’d heard about the bar?”
Fitz strokes his beard. “If memory serves, last summer when I told him and Logan I was headed to England with Emma, he said, ‘Don’t forget to check out The Magpie. Some of my mates over there were raving about it. It’s their favorite local bar.’”
I nod, understanding now. “And you thought, naturally, I hope the hot bartender there likes dick?”
“Fuck yeah.”
I laugh. “Yet another reason I love you. So fucking relentless.”
“I am absolutely relentless. And admit it,” he says, poking me. “Admit you’re glad I went there. Admit you’re so fucking happy I went to The Magpie to check out the rumor about the hot bartender.”
I lean in close, brushing my lips against his ear. “You know how much I like that you showed up. As in . . . love.” I pull away, taking a moment to savor the view—his blue eyes, his chiseled jaw, his trim beard, and most of all, his smile. It just does something to me every time he flashes it my way. “And I should thank Oliver for the tip.”
“Wait. Want to know what else the guys said to me when they mentioned it?”
“I do.”
Fitz’s expression softens, sliding into that smile that’s my undoing. “Logan said, ‘Maybe you’ll meet someone with an accent just like Oliver’s who’ll sweep you off your feet.’”
“So, really, both of your mates were right. I definitely owe them a thanks.”
He nudges my side. “What will you say? Thanks for sending that irresistible sex god into my bar?”
“Yes. That. Precisely that,” I deadpan. I stare off in the distance. “Funny. You went from sex god to besotted fool in love in, what was it, five days in London?”
“That’s all it took?” Fitz asks dryly. “I thought it was less.”
“If memory serves.”
“Then I’m guilty as charged. I’m both.” He taps his chest, owning it. “I’m still both. I can multitask.”
“You are definitely both,” I say. “Those are among your pros.”
“You better not keep a list of my cons.”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” I tease.
Fitz grabs my arm. His eyes plead with me. “Say it’s all pros. Your list.”
“Say it or mean it?” I toss back.
“Both.”
I run my hand over his where he’s gripping me, giving him the reassurance he sometimes seeks. And he always deserves. “Don’t ever forget it only took me five days to fall in love with you too. So, yes, the list is all pros. You are all pros. Now, let’s be good boys and go see our guests.”
He grabs my ass, squeezing. “Good. And then a little later, I am going to strip you naked and have my way with you. Because I am seriously hot for my husband.”
“Yet another pro. Also, ditto.” I smooth a hand down my tie, then straighten his. “There. We look presentable now.”
“We won’t later,” he adds.
“I know. Trust me, I know.”
We head back inside, scanning the guests. Summer and Oliver are sharing a slice of cake. Logan and Bryn are dancing slowly. Ransom stands at the bar, his elbow resting on it. He tips his forehead at Fitz, who nods back at him. His teammate then returns his focus to a pretty redhead, who’s laughing and, it seems, making him laugh.
“He does seem rather hooked on Teagan,” I whisper.
Fitz peers at his friend. “Yeah? How can you tell?”
“He looks at her the way you and I looked at each other when we first met. Perhaps at the teahouse. Wait. That was a little risqué. Possibly how we looked at each other at Sticks and Stones.”
Tilting his head, Fitz regards them like he’s gathering data. “Or maybe how we were on the Harry Potter bridge. Or outside the Tube station?”