A Guy Walks Into My Bar - Lauren Blakely Page 0,88

foolish.

And then hopeful again as I look at Fitz, his chest rising and falling, his breath coming in that steady, peaceful rhythm.

Softly, without waking him, I run a hand over his hair, flashing back on the last few days, remembering Sunday at Fortnum & Mason when we laid down the law.

This is just a fling. Nothing more, I’d told him.

I’d believed it fervently that afternoon. It had felt like a fact, like nothing would change it.

We could police our emotions.

We could make the rules and never break them.

I shake my head, silently laughing at the two of us. How little it took for us to bend.

I set my phone down, trying once more to sleep.

But then I remember what he said that day. It slams back into me with the force of a hurricane.

My job is everything to me because it means I can take care of my family. Make my mom’s life easy. Give her all the things she never had when we were growing up.

That’s the heart of the problem. I care about him too much to get in the way of his everything.

THURSDAY

Also known as the day we say goodbye.

36

Fitz

Dean keeps his word.

He makes breakfast the next morning—a mushroom omelet with fresh-cut strawberries on the side—and my stomach is in heaven.

“I will never mock you for cooking club again,” I say as I sit, setting down my coffee.

Then I wince.

Dean arches a brow above his cup of tea. “A little sore?”

I laugh lightly. “Yeah. Someone I know is kind of well-endowed.”

He sits across from me, smirking. “Sorry. Not sorry.”

I tap my left pec. “No regrets, babe. No regrets. It’s a good sore.”

His fork dives into his breakfast, and he takes a bite, chews, then swallows before he adds, “You know, there’s one surefire way to deal with that predicament.”

My nose crinkles. I don’t want to hear about weird remedies. Call me suspicious. “And what is that?”

Dean leans a little closer. “Do it again.” He takes another bite. “And again.” One more bite. “And again.”

Admittedly, I could go for that. “There’s only one little problem with that cure.”

“Your incessant need to top?” he asks with an arch of his brow.

“No,” I say emphatically. “Also, hello? It’s not incessant at all. Do I or do I not recall your dick in my ass last night?”

Dean pretends to consider this deeply. “What do you recall about it?”

I move closer to Dean. “I recall loving every single second of it,” I say, and his eyes darken, locking with mine.

“Every second?”

“Every single second,” I repeat, a little surprised at the strength of my own reaction to him topping me, at my own desire to try that again, to explore that possibility with him in bed, something I honestly never wanted with anyone else. “I did.” I slide my hand over his, running my finger over the veins, a spate of nerves reappearing briefly in my chest. But fuck them. Fuck those nerves. I shed them like I do in games—there’s no place for nerves in my world. “I want to again.”

“You do?” His voice sounds raspy.

I swallow, then nod. “I do. With you. Only with you. It felt fucking incredible.” I run my thumb along his knuckles. “But I don’t think it was just the physical.”

“It wasn’t . . .” he says.

I have to finish the thought. I’m the one who set that rule— of how we would be in the bedroom.

I required control.

I’ve needed control in the bedroom because it gave me control of my identity, control over how I was seen, some kind of control over my career.

But I don’t need to control everything with Dean, and there’s one reason for that. “No. It wasn’t just physical. It’s . . .” I stop, breathe in, dig deep into my fears, but face them anyway, speaking from the heart. “It’s because I trust you.”

He turns his hand over and holds mine. “You should trust me.”

I do. More than I expected to. And it feels damn good. “So what are we going to do about it?”

Dean’s lips quirk up. “Of your newfound interest in switching?” He grins wickedly. “Explore the fuck out of it.”

I laugh, shaking my head. “Dickhead.”

“You’re so sweet, Fitz. Don’t let anyone tell you you’re not sweet. Because you’re the sweetest.”

“Switching is easy. I’m talking about the big issue.” I gesture broadly, like that can encompass the endless miles between London and New York. “The nearly four-thousand-mile thing. Because that’s the real problem with your proposed cure for my