A Guy Walks Into My Bar - Lauren Blakely Page 0,31
Stones at eight thirty. It’s nearby, and open Sunday nights, unlike The Magpie. I’ll text you the address. Since I believe you had a study to show me, from the society of Why the Hell Won’t You Have Dinner with Me. Tonight you should show me that, and then show me all the other things you want to do to me.”
He grabs my face, drags me in close, and kisses me like he owns my lips. And if I stay any longer, he’ll miss his appointment.
So I break the kiss, step to the door, and reach for the handle. I’m about to take off, when I stop, turn around, and close the distance between us again.
There are moments for games, and then there are moments for truth.
I’m not going to see him again after Thursday. He’ll be out of my life for good. So, if I’m giving in now, I want to experience all of the pleasure, all of the chase.
And I want him to have a taste of the addiction he’s giving me, to feel its power, to know its pull. I drag my hand up his chest, spreading my palm over his pecs, so firm under my touch. “I do want more of you, Fitz. I want all of you. I have since the night I met you.”
His eyes are glossy with both lust and gratitude. “I’m so fucking glad you said yes to me.”
“Ditto.” I tip my forehead to the door. “And now I do have to go.”
I leave, counting down the seconds till I see him again.
That’s a good thing, this impatience, this intensity, but I have a feeling it could also become a bad thing.
A very bad thing indeed.
15
Dean
After I do some work and go for a run, I head home, shower, and change for tonight. Jeans and a polo. Phone and wallet. That’s all I need.
I catch the Tube, and when it lets me out near Sticks and Stones, I text my dad, checking in to see what he’s up to. He replies immediately.
Dad: Poker. I plan to clean up with my mates from the old office. They’re rubbish at cards.
Dean: And you’re not.
Dad: I can bluff like nobody’s business, and I can always tell who’s trying to bluff me. What are you up to tonight?
Dean: Just heading out to see a friend. I’ll see you Tuesday for dinner, right?
Dad: Friend??? It’s hilarious that you think I don’t know what that means. Have fun with that Yankee.
I crack up as I walk the short distance to Sam’s pub, pinging Dad as I go.
Dean: How did you know?
Dad: Friend. You called him a friend. Not a mate. Good luck on your date.
Dean: It’s official. I’m disowning you.
Dad: Too late. You’re stuck with me.
Dean: See if I make it to dinner this week, old man.
Dad: You’ll show, I have no doubt. You always do.
I look up from the phone to see the man of the hour walking toward me. He’s freshly showered by the look of it, the ends of his brown hair a little wet. He wears jeans and a T-shirt that’s just a notch above casual, revealing the tribal bands that wrap around his biceps and slide into sunbursts on his shoulders.
“Hey, you. Something funny?” Fitz nods at the phone.
“My dad. We were just texting.”
“Ahh,” Fitz says. “I nearly forgot to do this.” He clasps my cheeks and kisses me. It lasts all of two seconds, but it goes to my head.
When he breaks the kiss, he gestures toward my phone. “How’s your dad?”
“He’s good,” I say, smiling, tucking my mobile away in my pocket. “He was just giving me a hard time about tonight.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s the world’s most sarcastic person.”
Fitz’s eyes sparkle. “This explains so much about you.”
“Why, yes, I do get my good looks from him,” I say, deadpan.
He cracks up. “Exactly. So why was he giving you a hard time about tonight? Is he not supportive?”
It’s my turn to laugh. “He’s giving me a hard time because he called it a date before I did.”
Fitz grins, then sets a hand on my back. “I like your dad. Also, yes, this is a date. I’m calling it that too. And your dad is a smart man.”
“He’s brilliant,” I say, trying to rein in the grin that might reveal how much I want to be exactly where I am right now with the ice defender, the cocky athlete, the guy who walked into my bar.