A Guy Walks Into My Bar

by Lauren Blakely

  “Definitely our least favorite,” I echo.

  She lifts her head, erasing the temporary spate of sadness, her eyes now glinting. “It’s about other four-letter words, right? The good ones. The ones that mean fun.”

  “Right, of course,” I say quickly. She’s right on that count too.

  “And along those lines, how long is he here for anyway? I thought Emma said he was only in town for a little bit.”

  “A week. Though I suppose five days is more accurate.” I glance at the clock as if it’s ticking down to his departure. Loudly. Insistently.

  With wide eyes, she gestures to the door, shooing me. “Get on that. Now. Ride that man. Go, go, go.”

  I laugh. “You want that jukebox badly.”

  “Yes, but I also saw the way you two looked at each other.” She brings her finger to her tongue and touches the air, making a sizzling sound. “You two are fire. And you have plenty of time for a fun fling. Plus, think of how great the bar will look once he leaves and you get on with all your chores. Sounds like a win-win all around.”

  “So I should bang him so we can have the bar done at last?”

  “Yes.” Then she shifts to a more serious tone. “Look, I’ve known you for more than ten years. We set up this bet to avoid distractions, and I know you want to avoid them, but you’re also worried about being like your mum, and you’re not.”

  “I didn’t know you were going to psychoanalyze me.”

  She shrugs easily. “It’s what friends do. And friends also remind friends to have some fun. After all, how many times is a hot, bighearted American hockey player going to show up here? One who, by all accounts, is insanely into you. The choice is easy as pie. No strings, no attachments.”

  She tosses a towel over her shoulder and leaves me to my thoughts. I push the mop around some more, running the possibility over in my mind. Sure, losing the bet nicks my pride, but more than anything, I need to stay focused because this bar—my business, the thing I’ve most wanted to do since uni—is my dream. Something of my own. Something I’m in charge of.

  And dating can be distracting.

  But if he’s only here for a few days? He can’t be distracting, because he can’t be anything more than a fling.

  I finish mopping, put the bucket away, and return to the counter, where Maeve is nearly done polishing the glasses. I pull out my phone and open my playlist. “Fancy a martini and some excellent music?”

  “Always. But you make them—both the playlist and the drinks. Yours are legendary on both counts.”

  “That is true. I am the martini master and the greatest deejay this bar has ever known.”

  I put on some Miles Davis, since that’s what I like in the bar, and mix some drinks. Then, I click open my texting app, deciding to add a little spice to tomorrow’s tea.

  10

  Fitz

  Later that night, I’m alone in my hotel room after I’ve worked out, showered, and had dinner with Emma. I slide into bed wearing nothing and grab my phone, tempted to text him.

  But I don’t. Instead, I turn to a podcast I’ve been hooked on, Someone Knows Something, catching up with some of my friends in New York as I listen.

  First, I see a text from my friend Summer, who just opened a gym catering to the over-fifty-five crowd. I click on it, smiling at the picture she sent of some of her clients kickboxing, then read a message telling me she might just enlist me to teach them hockey next. I reply.

  Fitz: I’ll teach them to fight on the ice too.

  I toggle over to a text from her twin brother, Logan, one of my good buds.

  Logan: Some people are counting down till training camp. I am counting down till paintball league.

  Fitz: That is because you know you have a secret weapon with me on your team.

  Logan: Shh. Don’t tell anyone. Also, Amelia says hi, and she wants a picture of you on London Bridge to make sure it’s not falling down. Guess she likes you. Don’t have any idea why.

  Fitz: Because your seven-year-old has awesome taste. And I promise to get her a pic. Love that kid.

  I close the thread, messaging next with Ransom, one of my close friends from the team.

  Ransom: T-minus six days. NOT THAT I’M COUNTING THE DAYS till training camp starts.

  Fitz: But is it counting that you’re doing, man?

  Ransom: Counting the babes.

  Fitz: I’d expect nothing less from you.

  Ransom: I’m heading to a club tonight in Soho. Wish me luck. Wait, I don’t need luck.

  Fitz: Good luck, you ugly bastard.

  Ransom: The ladies love this mug.

  Fitz: Some people have no taste. Anyway, be ready to kick unholy ass on the ice in T-minus six days.

  Ransom: Nothing less, bro. Nothing motherfucking less.

  I send him an emoji of a middle finger, and he sends five back to me, when lo and behold, a text arrives from Dean. I close the Ransom thread, since this one is way better than chatting with my friends.

  Dean: English breakfast is a strong, robust flavor. Earl Grey is subtler.

  There might be a hidden message in there. I reply, going fishing.

  Fitz: Got a favorite between the two?

  Dean: Generally, I prefer a strong tea.

  Yeah, I had a feeling he might say that. Or maybe a hope, because I know I can come on strong. But that’s who I am.

  Fitz: Good to know. That’s very good to know.

  Dean: I thought you might find that intel useful. As a primer, if you know what I mean.

  Fitz: I do know what you mean, and I do find that tip very, very useful.

  Dean: Good. I’m glad to hear that it’s handy.

  Fitz: So handy. Also, in case you’re wondering, I’m still thinking about the way you mauled my face this afternoon.

  Dean: Of course you’re thinking about that.

  Fitz: No doubt you are too.

  Dean: It’s possible.

  Fitz: You like to toy with me.

  Dean: You like when I do it.

  Fitz: Evidently I do. It was hot as hell how you went after what you wanted today.

  Dean: I had a feeling you might have enjoyed it. But rest assured you weren’t the only one.

  Fitz: Ah, so you’re saying the feeling was mutual?

  Dean: The feeling was very much mutual. And I also very much liked what I felt.

  Fitz: You are such an unstoppable flirt.

  Dean: And this bothers you?

  Fitz: No, it turns me on. That’s the problem. I’m here in my big king-size bed, all alone, without a stitch of clothing on.

  Dean: If you think I’m going to ask for a dick pic, that is not my style.

  Fitz: If you think I’m going to send one, that is not my style.

  Dean: Good. Now we’ve established that, thanks a lot for planting that fantastic image in my head. You in your bed with nothing on, and I can’t fucking make a proper martini now.

  I smile. Unbidden, it takes over my entire being. He’s as affected as I am.

  Fitz: And on that note, I’ve got business to take care of, and I will see you for tea.

  I shut my texting app before I say anything else, because it’s best to leave him wanting more. And I’m pretty sure that’s exactly how he’s feeling right now.

  The same way I am.

  SUNDAY

  Also known as the day we make the rules we’re sure we’ll never break.

  11

  Fitz

  My morning is packed.

  First, a long workout at the hotel gym, where I push myself with weights, crunches, and push-ups.

  Then, I hit the streets, AirPods in, blasting my usual hard rock jams as I pound out six miles across the city, soaking in the sights of Battersea Park and the Peace Pagoda.

  As the playlist loops, I picture the season ahead of me, the performance I want to have, the stats I want to rack up.

  The focus I need.

  My contract is up at the end of next year, so it’s a pivotal one. The
better I do, the more secure I can make the future for Mom, Emma, Carrie, and Sarah, as well as their kids.

  When I finish my workout, I return a call from my agent as I cool down, winding my way through the last few blocks back to the hotel.

  “Just curious. How would you feel about an endorsement deal with an athletic wear company?” she asks.

  “How would you feel about a lifetime supply of chocolate?” I toss back, since Haven and I made a deal once upon a time that if we hit a set goal, I’d set her up like that.

  “Hmm. Let me think on that for a few seconds. Wait. Done. I’m in.”

  We review the details as I make my way into the lobby. “You’re the woman. It all sounds good to me.”

  “This deal is going to keep you pretty busy when you’re not playing. You good with that?”

  “You know me—”

  “The no-strings guy.”

  “Exactly.” I say goodbye when I reach my room.

  Checking the clock on my phone, I pump a fist that it’s nearly teatime. Then I laugh at myself because I deserve to be laughed at.

  Good job, man. You’re stoked for tea—first time for everything.

  I strip off my shorts and hit the shower.

  But Dean’s not the only reason I’m psyched to go to Fortnum & Mason. Being an Anglophile her whole life, Emma’s had afternoon tea on her bucket list for a long time.

  After the shower, I get dressed, checking out my reflection on the way out of the bathroom. I look sharp—pressed slacks, button-down. Not too shabby.

  I head to Emma’s room down the hall, rapping twice on the door.

  When she opens it, she eyes me up and down approvingly. “I haven’t seen you looking so spiffy in a long time.”

  I gesture to my clothes. “I have to wear a suit before every game. This hardly counts as dressed up.”

  She pats my shoulder. “Right. Sure. This is just like you following the club rules dress code.”

  I roll my eyes. “Are you or are you not the one who sent me the link to the smart-casual dress code for tea?”

  “Hmm. That does sound like me. But I still know you have ulterior motives for looking so sharp.”

  “Yes. I do have ulterior motives. Which you played a part in engineering.”

  With a saucy lift of her chin, she says, “You’re welcome.”

  She grabs her purse, slings it over her shoulder, then smooths out her pink sundress. “Let’s go, Casanova. I’m excited that you’ve found a man to ask to tea.”

  I hold up my hands in surrender. “I didn’t ask him, Ems. He offered. Told you. Your big brother is irresistible.”

  She ruffles my hair as we head down the hall. “A legend in your own mind. Though you are aware that we don’t actually need an English person to navigate tea?”

  “Of course we do,” I insist as we step into the elevator.

  She wags her finger at me. “I’ve only been prepping for this my whole life. I’ve studied every menu for tea in the city and read the reviews. But this will be extra special. I get to go with my brother”—she wiggles a brow—“and his new gentleman friend.”

  She gives me a wink as we head out into the lobby.

  “Yes, he’s a friend. I came to London to make new friends,” I say, deadpan, as we hit the street.

  “And I can’t wait to meet your new friend. And learn all about your fabulous friendship.”

  I gaze at the sky. “Why must sisters be like this?”

  She pokes my stomach. “I have to represent not just my interests in knocking you down a few pegs, but Carrie’s and Sarah’s too. It’s not an easy job to handle all the ribbing on my own. I’ve got to channel theirs too.”

  “You seem to be doing just fine in that department.”

  “I’ll let them know,” she says as we walk through the crowds on a fine London summer day. She hooks her arm through my elbow. “I don’t think I’ve met anyone you’ve liked since that guy in college. Marcus.”

  That name is another reminder why I don’t do relationships.

  He was the last time I was with someone for more than a few nights. Nearly a whole semester. He even met Emma when she and my other sisters visited campus for a game.

  But it turned out he was more interested in experimenting. He returned to girls after me.

  And asked for Carrie’s number.

  Yeah, that was fun.

  As we reach Fortnum & Mason, my gut twists. I’m not worried Dean is after Emma, not for a second. Or that he’s bi-curious. But is it a mistake to invite him along to a family thing? Shit. Maybe I got wrapped up in the challenge and the pursuit yesterday. I didn’t think about the fact that I was mixing a fling with family—something I never do.

  Should I cancel? Reschedule?

  But when I’m inside and spot him at a table, I shove aside all thought of mistakes. Because I burn at the sight of him.

  He stands, and he’s absolutely smoldering in his tight black collared shirt and pants.

  “Now that’s smart-casual,” Emma whispers.

  “More like hot AF.”

  “Yes, that too.”

  As we walk over, his eyes run up and down me like I’m his next meal, and it’s a huge turn-on.

  Then he’s smiling broadly at Emma and opening his arms to give her a hug and a kiss on the cheek.

  When they part, she puts on her best sheepish grin. “I hope you can forgive me for my Machiavellian ways yesterday.”

  “You’re a master puppeteer,” he says, a twinkle in his eyes. “And obviously, all is forgiven.” His gaze swings to mine again. “Since I’m here.”

  “You’re here,” I echo, barely caring if my thoughts are transparent.

  He looks down, swallows, then gestures to the table where we take our seats. “Let’s get to your afternoon tea, Emma. Are you thinking Jubilee? Royal Blend? Earl Grey?”

  Emma leans forward and rattles off five or six different combinations that she’s been thinking about, and all I can do is lean back and watch.

  Dean’s witty with me, fast on his feet, quick with a comeback. With Emma, he’s more charmingly inquisitive. Thoughtful. Truly caring. It’s a welcome change of pace, seeing how he treats my sister, how he engages with this person I adore.

  It’s honestly hotter than if he’d shown up shirtless.

  Though I do want that shirt off. Stat.

  By the time they serve our tea and finger sandwiches, Dean has Emma eating out of the palm of his hand with his knowledge about the proper steeping times and his opinions on different flavor infusions.

  “So, your art program,” he says, lifting his cup of English breakfast. “Tell me what it is you’re most anticipating.”

  Emma launches into the different classes she’ll be taking, the symposiums, the art periods she wants to study. “I love modern, but in my heart, I think I’m drawn most to eighteenth- and nineteenth-century art. I feel it truly expressed society and all its unspoken wishes and wants.”

  “That’s fair to say about a lot of English artists—unspoken wishes and all. I can see that in JMW Turner. Gainsborough too. Have you been to the National Gallery?”

  Emma laughs. “It was the first place I went! The Nicolaes Maes work? Stunning. Normally, I’m not into seventeenth-century work, but for some reason . . .”

  “It speaks to you, right?” Dean leans forward. “You should have been here for the Vermeer exhibit recently. Loyalty to my countrymen aside, I’m partial to Dutch art. I love the realism they tried to capture—almost a hyperrealism.”

  Emma glances at me and bursts out laughing. “James, you didn’t tell me he knows art!”

  “I’m learning new things myself,” I say.

  Dean moves his teacup in front of his face to hide his laugh.

  Emma smooths out her napkin. “How do you know so much about art? No one except art geeks like me know the Dutch artists well.”

  He waves a hand dismissively. “Mum worked in the field. Learned it from her. Before she left, that is.�
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  My ears perk more. That’s new intel.

  “When was that?” Emma asks.

  “Emma,” I chide.

  Dean’s smile says he doesn’t mind the question. “I was thirteen. She left for Australia. It’s okay. My dad’s great, and we did just fine without her. He lives down the street, and I see him a lot. Fortunately, he also likes art, and sometimes we go to the National Gallery together. She didn’t ruin our love of museums.”

  “Maybe I’ll run into the two of you there some time,” she says, and a momentary pang of jealousy tugs in my chest at how lucky she is to have the chance to run into Dean someday when I’m gone.

  “Maybe you will. And you can teach me what you’ve learned. So, you’ve been to the National Gallery. What do you think about my hometown otherwise? Are you both enjoying London?”