A Guy Walks Into My Bar - Lauren Blakely Page 0,70
if we’re playing games still, if we’re giving each other the fantasy of us, or if we’re jumping into the deep end of the hard truth.
But I can’t lie. Not when he looks at me like that, like he’s laying it on the line.
I swallow and then nod. “I know that, Fitz. I absolutely know that.”
When we kiss again, it’s tinged once more with desperation. So much that I don’t care if he calls me dude. I just like him calling for me. Wanting me. Surrounding me.
I want as much as I can get.
“Now, about that matter we discussed earlier,” he says in a naughty tone.
Fitz seems intent on making good on his list of dirty deeds.
Especially when he has his wicked way with me a few minutes later, getting me to arch my hips, and bow my back, and say his name in strangled, hoarse breaths, because what he’s doing to me is wild and carnal and worth cleaning all the ice bins in the city.
The trouble is, it’s worth so much more.
Because I think I’m falling in love with him.
When the sun streams through the window the next morning, warming me, waking me up, I stretch, yawn, and smile.
We have one more day.
I reach for him, ready for the last twenty-four hours to start.
But he’s gone.
WEDNESDAY
Also known as the day it hurts, and the day it hurts so good.
27
Fitz
It’s five in the morning, and I can’t breathe.
I scrub a hand across my face, and I try to draw in air.
But my lungs can’t fill because my heart is slamming against my chest, and I have no fucking clue what is happening to me.
I sit up in bed as the dark of night streams through the open blinds.
Dean’s sound asleep on his stomach next to me, his back on display.
And I still can’t breathe.
Being near him is too much right now.
It’s too hard.
I can’t think straight with him this close.
I have plans. So many plans for my family. For my team.
For myself.
And I can’t sleep.
I never have trouble sleeping.
I sleep like the dead. Like the guilty. Like a cat.
But I’ve been waking up every twenty minutes. I can’t think straight, and all I can do is feel.
I clench my teeth and drag a hand through my hair, willing this to stop.
This incessant beating in my chest.
This too-fast, too-hard pounding.
And the ringing in my ears. Loud and unavoidable, with no way to turn the volume down.
But the noise and the thumping aren’t going away.
I look at the window, jaw clenched, trying to figure out what to do. Then I glance at Dean.
Sleeping so damn peacefully.
I lift a hand, wanting to slide it down his back, along his arm.
That’s the problem. All I want is to touch him, be with him.
And I can’t deal with this intensity. It’s strangling me. It’s cruelly stealing my blood and my breath.
This isn’t what I wanted.
This isn’t why I came to England.
I didn’t come here to feel.
I came here for Emma.
And maybe, just maybe, to fuck.
And now I am fucked.
Because I fell.
And I can’t handle it.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed, find my boxer briefs, and tug them on. If he wakes, I’ll tell him I’m going for a run.
But he’s quiet, still sound asleep as I pull on my jeans, my shirt, my socks. I stuff my phone in my pocket.
I push my fingers against the corners of my eyes, pinching the bridge of my nose, trying to decide.
Should I stay, or should I go?
But my feet choose. They take me to the door, where I grab my shoes.
I’ll text him later.
Tell him I’m working out.
That’s plausible. That feels reasonable.
Even though, as I open the door quietly and let it fall shut behind me before I put on my shoes, I know what I’m doing is something else entirely.
I’m running.
28
Dean
At first, it seems like a miscommunication.
I wake up. The other side of the bed is empty. So is the living room, the kitchen, the bathroom.
Fitz is gone, and so are his clothes.
His shoes aren’t by the door.
His phone isn’t on the nightstand.
Fine, fine. He could have gone for a run or maybe had somewhere to be. He didn’t want to wake me, but he’ll have texted with an explanation. If I grab my phone, I’ll find a message saying he had a meeting, a workout, a breakfast with his sister.
So that’s what I do. I pick up my phone and ignore the sense of impending doom hanging over me.