A Guy Walks Into My Bar - Lauren Blakely Page 0,22
the bucket away, and return to the counter, where Maeve is nearly done polishing the glasses. I pull out my phone and open my playlist. “Fancy a martini and some excellent music?”
“Always. But you make them—both the playlist and the drinks. Yours are legendary on both counts.”
“That is true. I am the martini master and the greatest deejay this bar has ever known.”
I put on some Miles Davis, since that’s what I like in the bar, and mix some drinks. Then, I click open my texting app, deciding to add a little spice to tomorrow’s tea.
10
Fitz
Later that night, I’m alone in my hotel room after I’ve worked out, showered, and had dinner with Emma. I slide into bed wearing nothing and grab my phone, tempted to text him.
But I don’t. Instead, I turn to a podcast I’ve been hooked on, Someone Knows Something, catching up with some of my friends in New York as I listen.
First, I see a text from my friend Summer, who just opened a gym catering to the over-fifty-five crowd. I click on it, smiling at the picture she sent of some of her clients kickboxing, then read a message telling me she might just enlist me to teach them hockey next. I reply.
Fitz: I’ll teach them to fight on the ice too.
I toggle over to a text from her twin brother, Logan, one of my good buds.
Logan: Some people are counting down till training camp. I am counting down till paintball league.
Fitz: That is because you know you have a secret weapon with me on your team.
Logan: Shh. Don’t tell anyone. Also, Amelia says hi, and she wants a picture of you on London Bridge to make sure it’s not falling down. Guess she likes you. Don’t have any idea why.
Fitz: Because your seven-year-old has awesome taste. And I promise to get her a pic. Love that kid.
I close the thread, messaging next with Ransom, one of my close friends from the team.
Ransom: T-minus six days. NOT THAT I’M COUNTING THE DAYS till training camp starts.
Fitz: But is it counting that you’re doing, man?
Ransom: Counting the babes.
Fitz: I’d expect nothing less from you.
Ransom: I’m heading to a club tonight in Soho. Wish me luck. Wait, I don’t need luck.
Fitz: Good luck, you ugly bastard.
Ransom: The ladies love this mug.
Fitz: Some people have no taste. Anyway, be ready to kick unholy ass on the ice in T-minus six days.
I send him an emoji of a middle finger, and he sends five back to me, when lo and behold, a text arrives from Dean. I close the Ransom thread, since this one is way better than chatting with my friends.
Dean: English breakfast is a strong, robust flavor. Earl Grey is subtler.
There might be a hidden message in there. I reply, going fishing.
Fitz: Got a favorite between the two?
Dean: Generally, I prefer a strong tea.
Yeah, I had a feeling he might say that. Or maybe a hope, because I know I can come on strong. But that’s who I am.
Fitz: Good to know. That’s very good to know.
Dean: I thought you might find that intel useful. As a primer, if you know what I mean.
Fitz: I do know what you mean, and I do find that tip very, very useful.
Dean: Good. I’m glad to hear that it’s handy.
Fitz: So handy. Also, in case you’re wondering, I’m still thinking about the way you mauled my face this afternoon.
Dean: Of course you’re thinking about that.
Fitz: No doubt you are too.
Dean: It’s possible.
Fitz: You like to toy with me.
Dean: You like when I do it.
Fitz: Evidently I do. It was hot as hell how you went after what you wanted today.
Dean: I had a feeling you might have enjoyed it. But rest assured you weren’t the only one.
Fitz: Ah, so you’re saying the feeling was mutual?
Dean: The feeling was very much mutual. And I also very much liked what I felt.
Fitz: You are such an unstoppable flirt.
Dean: And this bothers you?
Fitz: No, it turns me on. That’s the problem. I’m here in my big king-size bed, all alone, without a stitch of clothing on.
Dean: If you think I’m going to ask for a dick pic, that is not my style.
Fitz: If you think I’m going to send one, that is not my style.
Dean: Good. Now we’ve established that, thanks a lot for planting that fantastic image in my head. You in your bed with nothing on, and I can’t fucking make a proper martini now.