A Guy Walks Into My Bar - Lauren Blakely Page 0,89
new affinity for switching,” I say, then take another bite of this decadent meal. “Also, dude, you can cook.”
“Thank you.” Dean takes a bite too, then finishes before he adds, “And it’s three thousand, four hundred, and fifty-nine miles. To be precise.”
I murmur my appreciation for his due diligence, then do my favorite imitation of him. “Is that so?”
“And about six hours and fifty minutes by plane,” he adds.
I set down my fork, raise my coffee cup, and take a long drink, then give an appreciative hum. “Someone has been doing research.”
“You said it yourself. I’m the thinker.”
“Did you make a pros and cons list too?” I return to my breakfast, but as I lift a forkful of strawberries, I have the strangest sensation—sort of like déjà vu, but not quite. It feels like I’m remembering something that is going to happen. Or rather, that I can start to see it lying ahead, like when I envision the trajectory of objects on the ice.
“Sometimes I make pros and cons lists,” Dean answers. His voice is distant as my mind latches onto this image. It’s hard to make out—the picture is hazy around the edges—but it feels like something I want.
I shake my head, trying to make sense of my brain. “Do you ever have forward vu?”
“Come again?”
I make a rolling stay with me here gesture. “Like déjà vu, but for something that’s going to happen.”
His brow furrows. “That’s a premonition. Are you having premonitions?” He sounds concerned.
I shake my head adamantly. I probably sound crazy. “No. It was more like a feeling, a sensation of something that could happen.”
His voice goes serious. “And you felt it just now?”
“Yeah, I did.”
He simply nods and takes another bite. “Interesting.”
“Why is that interesting?” The question sounds more defensive than I intended.
He laughs lightly, then sets down his fork. “Fitz, you brought it up. I’m simply remarking that it’s interesting.”
I scratch my jaw, trying to sort out these nascent ideas, these stick figure sketches in my head. “Yeah, sorry, babe. I think I’m just distracted. The flight and all. My mind is kind of like a train station right now.”
“Understandable.”
I return to the important issue, since I want some clarity before I go. I need it. “Did you make a pros and cons list for us?” I ask, my stomach flipping a little with nerves. Because I want him to have found all the pros. I want him to tell me he’ll do a long-distance thing, even though I don’t want that at all with him.
That’s the irony of this unworkable sitch with Dean.
I want all of him, and I don’t know how to be content with whatever scraps I can scavenge.
I’m an all-in kind of guy. A go for it person.
Don’t do anything halfway when you can give 110 percent. That’s how I’ve been my whole life. It’s what I had to do for my mom when my dad died. Maybe not right away, maybe not even for a few years. But once I was a teenager, once I heard from enough coaches that I had a shot at the NHL, I knew I had to give every ounce of blood, sweat, tears, luck, and talent to hockey.
So I did.
That drive brought me where I am today—a place where I can finally make a difference for my mom.
Where I can be the man of the family.
I know how to do that. I’ve trained my entire life to give my all.
But to give only some? Sparing a bit of myself when we manage to make our schedules line up? I don’t know how to do that.
Except I’ve got to figure it out. Dean’s worth it.
Maybe pros and cons are the way to start. As I stand and clear the plates, I say, “Tell me about your list, babe.”
“Here’s a hint.” His English accent sounds a little melancholy as he joins me in the kitchen. “It’s all cons, except for one thing.”
My stomach dips in fear as I brace myself for the cons. “Give me the bad news first.” I set the dishes in the sink then turn to face him.
Dean moves next to me, jerking me close. “It’s a lot easier if I tell you the pro.”
The pro.
Only one damn thing.
I have a sinking feeling I know where this talk is going.
We are going nowhere, a plane sputtering out of the sky.
I steel myself for rejection. “What’s the pro?”
He slides his arms around my waist, probably to lessen the blow, as he says, “You’re