A Guy Walks Into My Bar - Lauren Blakely Page 0,24
my stomach. “I have to represent not just my interests in knocking you down a few pegs, but Carrie’s and Sarah’s too. It’s not an easy job to handle all the ribbing on my own. I’ve got to channel theirs too.”
“You seem to be doing just fine in that department.”
“I’ll let them know,” she says as we walk through the crowds on a fine London summer day. She hooks her arm through my elbow. “I don’t think I’ve met anyone you’ve liked since that guy in college. Marcus.”
That name is another reminder why I don’t do relationships.
He was the last time I was with someone for more than a few nights. Nearly a whole semester. He even met Emma when she and my other sisters visited campus for a game.
But it turned out he was more interested in experimenting. He returned to girls after me.
And asked for Carrie’s number.
Yeah, that was fun.
As we reach Fortnum & Mason, my gut twists. I’m not worried Dean is after Emma, not for a second. Or that he’s bi-curious. But is it a mistake to invite him along to a family thing? Shit. Maybe I got wrapped up in the challenge and the pursuit yesterday. I didn’t think about the fact that I was mixing a fling with family—something I never do.
Should I cancel? Reschedule?
But when I’m inside and spot him at a table, I shove aside all thought of mistakes. Because I burn at the sight of him.
He stands, and he’s absolutely smoldering in his tight black collared shirt and pants.
“Now that’s smart-casual,” Emma whispers.
“More like hot AF.”
“Yes, that too.”
As we walk over, his eyes run up and down me like I’m his next meal, and it’s a huge turn-on.
Then he’s smiling broadly at Emma and opening his arms to give her a hug and a kiss on the cheek.
When they part, she puts on her best sheepish grin. “I hope you can forgive me for my Machiavellian ways yesterday.”
“You’re a master puppeteer,” he says, a twinkle in his eyes. “And obviously, all is forgiven.” His gaze swings to mine again. “Since I’m here.”
“You’re here,” I echo, barely caring if my thoughts are transparent.
He looks down, swallows, then gestures to the table where we take our seats. “Let’s get to your afternoon tea, Emma. Are you thinking Jubilee? Royal Blend? Earl Grey?”
Emma leans forward and rattles off five or six different combinations that she’s been thinking about, and all I can do is lean back and watch.
Dean’s witty with me, fast on his feet, quick with a comeback. With Emma, he’s more charmingly inquisitive. Thoughtful. Truly caring. It’s a welcome change of pace, seeing how he treats my sister, how he engages with this person I adore.
It’s honestly hotter than if he’d shown up shirtless.
Though I do want that shirt off. Stat.
By the time they serve our tea and finger sandwiches, Dean has Emma eating out of the palm of his hand with his knowledge about the proper steeping times and his opinions on different flavor infusions.
“So, your art program,” he says, lifting his cup of English breakfast. “Tell me what it is you’re most anticipating.”
Emma launches into the different classes she’ll be taking, the symposiums, the art periods she wants to study. “I love modern, but in my heart, I think I’m drawn most to eighteenth- and nineteenth-century art. I feel it truly expressed society and all its unspoken wishes and wants.”
“That’s fair to say about a lot of English artists—unspoken wishes and all. I can see that in JMW Turner. Gainsborough too. Have you been to the National Gallery?”
Emma laughs. “It was the first place I went! The Nicolaes Maes work? Stunning. Normally, I’m not into seventeenth-century work, but for some reason . . .”
“It speaks to you, right?” Dean leans forward. “You should have been here for the Vermeer exhibit recently. Loyalty to my countrymen aside, I’m partial to Dutch art. I love the realism they tried to capture—almost a hyperrealism.”
Emma glances at me and bursts out laughing. “James, you didn’t tell me he knows art!”
“I’m learning new things myself,” I say.
Dean moves his teacup in front of his face to hide his laugh.
Emma smooths out her napkin. “How do you know so much about art? No one except art geeks like me know the Dutch artists well.”
He waves a hand dismissively. “Mum worked in the field. Learned it from her. Before she left, that is.”