A Guy Walks Into My Bar - Lauren Blakely Page 0,81
be looking at this a lot.”
“Just not in the locker room, please.”
My brow knits. “Dude, this is my bedtime viewing. I’m not looking at this in the locker room, because then I’d have a boner in front of my teammates. That is not going to happen.”
Dean laughs. “Good. Let’s keep it that way.”
As I take another swallow of my beer, a tall guy runs by, earbuds in, exercise shorts on, Nikes pounding the pavement.
“Shit,” I mutter.
“What’s wrong?”
“I didn’t work out today. Or yesterday,” I say, slumping in the chair. “Fuck.”
“And your training camp starts in a few days.”
“I can’t skip a workout.”
“It makes a difference? Every day?”
“This close to the season, yeah, it does. Cardio, at least.”
Dean reaches into his wallet, grabs some bills, tosses them on the table for the beers, then says, “Let’s go for a run.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes. I try to work out every day too.”
“And it shows. But seriously, you want to run with me?”
“Are you worried I can’t keep up? Because I don’t think that’s going to be a problem. Also, I weigh about twenty-five pounds less than you, so I might have the advantage there,” he says, taunting me with a quick survey of my bulkier frame.
“Oh no, you didn’t just unleash your secret competitive side on me.”
He lifts a single brow. “Was it a secret?”
I laugh, clapping my guy on the back. “No, but the thing is, I don’t have my running shorts or sneakers, and I don’t want to go back to my hotel and get them.”
“Well, you won’t fit into my shorts,” Dean says.
I snap my fingers, aw-shucks-style. “Damn, I was hoping we could start borrowing clothes.”
“I have an idea though. What size shoes do you wear?”
I smirk. “Big ones.”
He laughs. “Yes. I can tell. Because you have big feet. Seriously though. What’s your shoe size?”
“Twelve. US size.”
“Same. I have a couple of pairs of running shoes. You can borrow some.” He nods toward the end of the block. “Athletic store. Let’s get you some shorts, and we’ll run.”
“You really want to spend our last afternoon together going for a run?”
“It’s what you’d do at home, right? That’s kind of what we’ve been doing today.”
“That is true.” Maybe that’s why I’ve loved it so much, because it feels like a normal day in our normal life where we do all the things we want to do—eat, fuck, walk, run, play, talk.
Everything I want.
The man did not lie. Dean keeps pace with me at a fast clip as we run through the park. Only difference is he wears a T-shirt. I do not.
“Do you always run shirtless?” he asks. “Or just when you leave your clothes behind at the hotel?”
“Does it bother you?” I ask. “Or just distract you?”
“Yes, it bothers me terribly to see you half-naked.” He roams his eyes up and down my frame as we cruise along the path. “Correction: mostly naked.”
“And still all the way distracting,” I toss out.
“Yes, exactly. I can’t focus at all, which is why I’m keeping up with your NHL arse.”
“Cocky,” I say. “And I like it.”
“Thought you would. Anyway, tell me more about how that ice-defender thing works,” he says as we round the next bend.
“You want to know?”
“I want to understand hockey better. I truly do.”
And I swoon.
Then I tell him all about my favorite thing.
Except he might be my favorite thing now.
The golden hour is over. Twilight falls, and we’re in his flat again. I’ve got a towel wrapped around my waist, and my hair is wet, slicked back from the post-run shower. Dean’s the same, towel across his hips, and I stare at his reflection next to mine in the bathroom mirror. He slicks on deodorant, and then I wiggle my fingers in an unsubtle request.
He rolls his eyes and tosses it to me, even though I’m a foot away in this tiny space. He doesn’t have to say a word. I know we’re thinking the same thing, laughing at the same thing. We’re sharing all our shit.
Still, I just shrug as I slide it on. “What? TaskRabbit isn’t here yet with my stuff.”
His buzzer rings. “Guess it’s here now. I’ll take care of it.”
Dean unhooks the towel, lets it fall to the tiled floor, tosses me a feel free to stare look, then gives me a perfect view of his naked ass as he leaves the bathroom. I stare at him shamelessly as he grabs fresh boxer briefs and pulls them on, along with jeans and a polo.