A Guy Walks Into My Bar - Lauren Blakely Page 0,95

another. It’s the picture I took the last night there, at the sidewalk bar, drinking brews. He gave me the most smoldering look, a look that said I want you so much.

“I feel the same, babe,” I say to the image. “I feel the same.”

Great. This is what I do now. Talk to pics of the guy I wish were my boyfriend.

But it’s not that red-hot desire that makes me flip through the shots again.

It’s the other part. The part that Ransom saw.

The I have it bad part.

Because I absolutely do.

39

Dean

My dad pats the back of the finished chair. “Admit it. I missed my calling in furniture restoration.”

“It’s never too late to start a new career, even in retirement,” I say, but my voice sounds a little hollow.

He gestures to the chair’s new home across from the couch. “Maybe I could be an interior designer. The chair looks good here, doesn’t it?”

I glance around his flat, pointing to the corner by the window. “Better over there. Let’s move it.”

We move the chair by the window, and sunlight streams in over its whitewashed wooden arms, the perfect place to sit.

It’s Wednesday afternoon. We finished the chair last weekend.

That . . . passed the time.

It was . . . somewhat enjoyable.

I just wish someone had given me the memo that missing the man you love sucks.

But I guess some things you have to learn on your own. I stare out the window, watching the traffic trudge by, checking out the passersby on the pavement below.

Plenty of tourists, from the looks of them—white trainers and khaki shorts, some wearing shirts from their favorite sports teams. What’s that one? I peer at a cluster of college students walking by, laughing, taking selfies. A blonde in the group wears a jersey. A hockey jersey. I want to shout at her, Hey, I know someone on that team.

I don’t.

Instead, I pinch the bridge of my nose, riding a wave of self-loathing at the idiocy of feeling connected to a random fan on the street who’s sporting a jersey for some other player on Fitz’s team.

I’ve officially hit a new level of pathetic.

Or maybe I’m pissed at myself for recognizing his team colors, for having checked them out online. What is wrong with me? Turning around, I drag my hand over my face.

My dad stares at me, sympathy in his dark eyes. “Let’s get out of here. Grab a beer.”

The specifics of the beverage suggestion do not go unnoticed. “What? No offer to get a cup of tea, old man?”

“You don’t look like you need a cuppa. You look like you need a drink.”

“A stiff drink.”

“Okay, so maybe not a beer. How about a shot?”

I manage a mirthless laugh. “Getting shots with my dad. So this is how it goes.”

“Could be worse.”

I’m sure it could, but at the moment it’s hard to see how.

We hit a nearby pub, an old-time place that’s so London, I feel like I walked into a movie set. Everything is wood and dark, which seems fitting.

We order a round, and Dad lifts his glass to toast. “Let’s drink to . . .” He pauses, glancing around the pub, and I can tell he’s hunting for something hopeful. Something to cheer up my sorry arse. Perhaps he finds it. “Let’s drink to this pub.”

And it works. I do laugh at the ordinariness of the toast. “And why are we drinking to a pub?”

He scans the joint like he’s studying every angle. “This is very England.”

“Well, we are in England.” Those words taste a little bitter, a little less sweet than they would have a week ago.

“And this place, it feels like home,” he says, lifting his shot glass then knocking it back. I do the same, letting the tequila burn, as tequila does.

I make note of the pub’s pool table in the back, the trivia games too, and all the endless taps. It’s so standard London it’s beyond standard. “Yeah, it feels like home,” I say, echoing his sentiment, wishing that home could comfort me.

When we leave, I’m a little drunker than when I went in. So is my dad.

Okay, we’re buzzed. Let’s just call a spade a spade.

“So, are you going to see your lady friend now?” I ask as night falls over the city.

“Maybe I am. Maybe I’m not,” he says, but the grin gives him away.

“You are indeed a scoundrel.” I squeeze his shoulder. “What am I going to do with you? Driving all the ladies crazy at such an