A Guy Walks Into My Bar - Lauren Blakely Page 0,63
get to see inside.
Instead, I turn around, drink in the view of the quiet side street where he lives, then follow him into the foyer.
“It’s just like Notting Hill,” I remark.
“Except it’s in Bankside. And I don’t live with a crazy man who wears goggles and eats expired apricots.”
I poke his side. “Dean. Are you a closet rom-com fan?”
He swivels around, stopping on the steps, arching a brow. “Closeted? Oh no, not at all. I’m totally out on that front and all fronts.”
I laugh. “Yeah, Notting Hill is just a good flick.”
“That it is.”
I follow him up the stairs to the third floor, and he unlocks the door to his place. It opens with a faint groan, and I catalog that sound.
It’s like the opening theme song to a movie, and as the credits roll, I step into the world of the man I want to spend all my time with.
“It’s small, but it’s home,” he says, almost like he’s apologizing for it.
And it is tiny.
A kitchen with a sliver of space that opens right into a living room with exposed brick walls.
My eyes are wide, and I take it all in, like I can learn even more about him from the place he lives. It’s neat, tidy. His couch is dark gray, and there are books on the coffee table—nonfiction, from the looks of it, current titles on scandals and business. His walls are minimalist but decorated with prints of artwork—one looks like a Rothko, and another a Vermeer—and I smile privately, knowing where this comes from. His mom. Even if he’s not close to her, she left a mark on him, on something he loves.
As I turn around, Dean’s looking at me a little expectantly. Like he’s waiting for me to render a verdict on his home.
“I love it,” I say, then my gaze catches on some bookshelves. Framed photos line the top shelf. I walk over and pick one up. “That’s you and Naveen and Anya,” I say, studying the picture of them all at some sort of street fair. A candid picture of Dean with his friends, laughing and carefree.
“Yes.”
“When’s it from?”
“Two years ago, I think.”
I set it down, this piece of Dean’s history.
Then I find a picture of Dean and Sam crossing a finish line in a race. Looks like a 10K, and the date is a year ago. Their arms are raised. From the race banner, I see it’s a fundraiser for a local children’s hospital, and that tugs on my heart even more, another piece of his past. I’m looking through a window into his life, and I want to know it all, see it all.
The next shot is Dean lining up a pool cue and aiming it across the table. The guy he’s playing with has dark skin, much darker than Dean’s. I kind of love that he has friends from so many places and so many walks of life. “Who’s that?”
Dean moves next to me. “Taron.”
“Ah, the one who’s not your type.”
“Exactly. He’s a good mate though. Outgoing, vibrant. I wish you’d met him the other night.”
“I wish I had too.”
My eyes drift down the row of photos, ravenous to see more of his life, to gobble up all this insight into who he is, what makes him tick, and his world. Pictures of him and Maeve at the bar, then a posed shot of them outside The Magpie, arms wrapped around each other, smiling, and an open for business sign behind them.
“Last year?”
“Yup.”
I pick up more pictures of him and Maeve, including one of her lifting a pillow to swat him. He’s holding up his hands as if to defend himself. They’re in a tiny room, and he looks younger.
My heart thunders. “That’s you in college, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t room with Maeve, did you?”
He laughs, shaking his head. “No. But we spent a ton of time together.”
“You guys are really close,” I say, stating the obvious as I stare at the picture of Dean and his best friend like I can’t get enough of it.
“We are,” he says, then moves in behind me, wraps his arms around my waist, and brushes a soft kiss to my neck.
I set down the picture, close my eyes, and let myself enjoy the sensation of being in his embrace, feeling his lips, his touch, his strength.
I grab his hands clasped around my stomach, and clutch them so he won’t let go of me.