A Guy Walks Into My Bar - Lauren Blakely Page 0,98
just trying to keep you happy,” she says, squaring her shoulders.
“A plan. Like I suspected,” I say, having caught her in the act.
“He’s onto us, guys,” Sam chimes in, then stares at me with inquisitive eyes. “But the more important thing is—is it working?”
“Fabulously,” I say, deadpan. “Also, thanks for making me your charity case. Appreciate it.”
“Oh, stop,” Maeve says. “We love you, and we want you to be happy here.”
“I am happy here. I promise. And I’ll stay happy as long as people aren’t constantly asking about him.”
“Speaking of never bringing up the NHL all-star,” Sam says, “he’s killing it in preseason.”
“Is that so?” I pick up my drink like it’s the most fascinating concoction in the world.
“His stats are great. His gameplay is top-notch,” my American friend adds, then rattles off stats I already know by heart. Points, goals, assists.
“Why are you smiling like you have a secret?” Maeve asks me with narrowed eyes.
“No reason,” I say, trying to rein in a grin.
“You are a certified fanboy,” Sam says, wagging a finger at me. Then he leans toward Maeve, a little closer than I’ve seen him get to her before. “I think your best friend just developed an interest in hockey.”
And she inches closer to him too. “I think he did.”
Taron’s jaw drops as he gawks. “You, of all people, know hockey now?”
“A little.”
Sam points at me. “Do you know how many assists Fitzgerald had last night?”
I hold up a finger. A little sheepishly, but a little proudly too. I am proud of my man.
“Fitzgerald is very good,” Sam adds, then looks at Maeve. “And it seems Collins is still quite taken with his American man.”
Maeve sets her chin in her hands and bats her lashes at me. “Yes, it seems you are, Dean.”
I shrug, what can you do–style. “Well, it’s not like the common cold. It wasn’t going to go away after a week.” Or at all, I add silently.
Sam shakes his head. “No. It’s not going to go away when you research him, Dean. But maybe it shouldn’t.”
“I for one think you should get on a plane tonight,” Taron offers.
I shake my head. “That won’t happen.” But the idea is insanely tempting.
“He might be your portobello mushroom sandwich,” Anya says.
Maeve stabs the table. “Dean, why don’t you call him?”
“You know why,” I tell her. She’s privy to the details of what Fitz and I decided the morning he left.
Anya rolls her eyes. “Enough of this nonsense. Just send the gorgeous man a text. The night we met him, he looked at you like he was already falling in love with you,” she says, and I have to hide a grin.
Maeve nods savagely. “Text him. I bet it’ll make him incandescently happy.”
When she puts it like that, there’s no question. I do know a simple note from me would make him happy. I’m as sure of that as I am that the sun will rise tomorrow. I know Fitz. I know that man so well. It’s heady to possess the power to make another person happy.
It’s a gift, truly.
One that should be used with care.
But I’m not only doing this for him.
I’m doing it for me.
Making him happy makes me happy.
“Fine.” I hold up my hands in surrender, and maybe I really am. But maybe that’s what I need to be doing—surrendering to the grip the past has had on me, to the fear that I’ll make the same mistakes.
Then letting go of everything past.
I take out my phone, open the last text thread, reading his words yet another time, then tap out a message.
Dean: Nice assist in the game yesterday.
In seconds, my phone buzzes.
Fitz: You watched my game? You have no idea how happy that makes me. Also, where are you? There’s a delivery guy at your bar.
42
Dean
Maeve’s grin may never disappear.
“This is the best jukebox ever,” she says, resting her cheek against the brand-new jukebox in The Magpie a half-hour later, stroking it, petting it. “And this makes our bar the best bar ever.”
I stand back, surveying the scene, still amazed at what Fitz pulled off. He actually found the jukebox she wanted—the one I showed him at Coffee O’clock—ordered it, and sent it here via rush delivery. I was going to buy it for Maeve, but he beat me to it, doing something incredible for my friend.
“Why are you not on a plane right now to go see him?” Sam asks, flapping a hand in the direction of Heathrow.