A Guy Walks Into My Bar - Lauren Blakely Page 0,54
he says, squeezing me harder.
“You’re not too bad.”
“You hate snuggling. Admit it,” he says, dipping his head into the crook of my neck and planting a loud, over-the-top kiss there as a soft thunk registers in my mind.
“Yes, I despise it. Please stop,” I say as I do the opposite, somehow scooting closer to him.
“I can’t stop. I can’t help myself,” Fitz teases, then grabs me hard, yanking me into his arms.
“Okay, now you’re being ridiculous,” I say, but I’m laughing, even as I gently push him away, the sound of the show playing in the background a little more distant now.
He raises his head, furrowing his brow. “What happened to my phone?”
“I think it fell on the floor.” I peer over the side of the bed and reach down to grab the phone from the carpet. I hand it to him, the show still playing.
“So, good show, huh?” he asks dryly.
“It’s fantastic. I could write an essay on it.”
“We could do a trivia night about the show.”
“Yes, I know so much about it. Let’s find a pub and do a quiz, and we’ll ace it.”
Fitz laughs, clicking the end button on the show. A notification pops up on his phone—a new text message.
I look away, not wanting to pry.
“You can answer your messages. It doesn’t bother me.”
“It’s from Logan. He thanked me for the pic,” he says, then shows me the text.
Logan: Amelia loved the pic. Thanks, man. Anyone who makes my kid that happy is good in my book.
Fitz smiles, then scrolls to the next message. “And this is from his sister, Summer. She’s also one of my friends in New York.”
“They’re the ones with the cousin I’d surely be mates with because of our furniture hobby?”
“Yes, that’s them,” he says with a laugh, then clicks on Summer’s message.
I don’t look at his phone, but I can’t help but notice the way his eyes light up, how a smile seems to tug at the corner of his lips as he reads her note.
But I say nothing. It’s not my place, even though I’m curious about what makes him look like that, what a friend says to him that puts that happiness on his face. Of course, it doesn’t seem hard to make Fitz happy. He’s wired for it, like a golden retriever. Happiness seems to be the natural state he gravitates to, yet another thing to like about him.
That list is getting far too long for my own good.
“Summer says you’re a smoke show,” he says, nudging me, breaking my momentary daze.
“She does? Why would she say that?”
“I showed her your picture. A different one than I sent to Amelia. I sent Summer one where you look hot AF.”
I sit up straighter in bed, intrigued, maybe even a little delighted. “You did?”
The look on his face is sheepish as he confesses, “She wanted to know what I was up to, so I sent her some pictures.”
“Ah, and did you say, ‘This is what I’m up to—banging this hot English bloke’?”
“Something like that,” he says, still clutching his phone. The look in his eyes, the sound of his voice almost makes me think he wants me to dig further, to ask what he said about me.
I don’t entirely know if I want to go down this road, but I don’t want to turn away from it either. So, with a little bit of nerves, I ask, “What did you say?”
He shows me his phone so that I can see his response.
Fitz: This is what I did today. Had the best time.
Three pictures are attached to the message—a shot of us by the Millennium Bridge, another by the Tower Bridge, and one more by the Leaky Cauldron. We look happy together, like a couple. I’m having a hard time looking away from the images.
I read his text to her a few times, and each time my chest warms a little more, and words stick in my throat. Words I want to say. Words I’m terrified of saying.
I meet his gaze. He looks like he’s waiting for something. A confirmation. A departure. Something. And none of this feels like it fits our earlier conversation on the bridge, but all of it feels necessary.
Like we’re stepping over those lines we drew again so firmly this afternoon.
Especially when I say the words that scare me and electrify me all at once. “Same. Same for me. I had a great time too.”
His shoulders relax, and his grin ignites. “Then Summer said you were a