We don’t hold hands. That’s not what this is between us.
We screw, we have fun, nothing more.
Just to prove we aren’t some touchy-feely couple, I don’t even plant a kiss on his delicious lips.
He doesn’t seem to miss it, since he smirks as he says, “Good afternoon, James.”
I shoot him a curious grin. “You’re using my first name now?”
“Thought I’d try it on for size.”
“And how’s the fit on your tongue?”
He screws up the corner of his lips like he’s deep in thought. “I think I’ll call you James when I’m mad at you.”
I laugh. “You could never be mad at me.”
“And why is that?”
“I make you laugh, and I’m good in bed.”
He tosses his head back and cracks up. “That’s all it takes to prevent someone from being cross with you?”
“What else is there?” I ask with a wicked grin. Banter is good, more like the level that Dean and I are—fuck buddies who have a great time together.
Nothing more.
“I can’t think of a damn thing,” he says. I take that as proof that he agrees, and that we’re on the same page we were yesterday when we made our deal at the world’s sexiest tea party. We set the rules, and we outlined all the expectations for this fling that ends in seventy-three-and-a-half hours.
Or, really, seventy-three hours and fifteen minutes.
I shove off the reminder of the ticking clock, since who cares? Clocks are supposed to tick, and I’ll be so damn happy when I get on that plane to training camp. All the hot hotel sex will have satiated me, and the only thing I’ll be hungry for is ice time.
I keep my foot on the gas pedal of this no-strings arrangement. “Seeing as you’re not mad at me, and won’t be mad at me, since I plan to keep making you laugh and keep making you feel good, you should just call me Fitz. I like that better for you.”
“Why?”
“Because my teammates call me Fitzgerald. Well, they say, ‘Yo, Fitzgerald.’”
“Something you will never hear me say.”
“Also, I like the way you say Fitz.”
“Why’s that?”
I drop my voice to a whisper. “It’s sexy, the way you say it in the heat of the moment. It’s like my name tastes good on your tongue.”
Dean lets out a low rumble, leaning closer to me as crowds stream by, tourists and Londoners alike weaving past us. “You taste good on my tongue, Fitz.”
A bolt of lust slams into my chest, heating me up. This is what I’m talking about—lust, desire, pleasure.
“Right back atcha, Dean.” Then I drape an arm over his shoulders. That’s not holding hands. It’s not as intimate. It’s just a normal thing for us to do as we walk along the river then turn onto the bridge.
I survey the Thames from this vantage point, savoring the view of the ribbon of water as it snakes through the city. We stop in the middle of the bridge. I check out the setting, enjoying everything about it. The gray stone towers, like something out of Cinderella, complete with turrets, are flanked by a light-blue walkway and suspension railings. “Fine, you were right. This is hella pretty.”
“Hella,” he says, shaking his head in amusement. “Your Americanisms kill me.”
“Knackered bloody wanker. Same to you, bro.”
Dean rolls his eyes. “Bro. I die a slow death.”
“Has anyone ever told you that it’s easy to rile you up?”
“No. No one has. Maybe because no one likes to do it as much as you do.”
“True. I kinda love it. Pushing your buttons is my new favorite hobby.” I stop, park my elbows against the railing, and drink in the sights. “Yep, I can see why you like this one.”
“It’s lovely, isn’t it? Like a fairy tale.”
“Yeah, it’s got a very storybook vibe.” I punch his arm—that’s friendly, pals-y. “Good call.”
He shoots me an amused smile. “So, is this how we’re doing it? With bros and arm punches?”
My cheeks flame as he calls me out for trying too hard to be ultracasual. To treat Dean like one of the guys on the team, like Ransom, trash-talking each other to show we care.
“Sure? Why not?” I ask with a shrug, keeping it up because it feels necessary.
“Okay, wanker,” he says, staring at the water, his lips curving up in a grin. “Piss off,” he adds, punctuating the words, having fun with them.
“Aww. Are you gonna call me James next? Are you mad at me?”
He laughs, shaking his head. “You said it was impossible to be mad at you.”
“And is it?”
He turns his face to me. “No. I bet you could piss me off.” Dean’s voice is low, a little smoky, a hint of challenge in it.
“Why’s that?”
“I just think you have it in you.” It comes out even and offhand, but I’m not sure what to make of it.
I narrow my eyes. “Are you saying I’m a dick?”
He shakes his head, his tone more serious than I expected. “No. I’m just realistic. I think we as human beings have it in us to irritate each other. Even if you’re funny and make me come ridiculously hard, you can still piss me off.”
“That’s why I think it’s smart that we set rules for this,” I say as a reminder to us both. I need the part of my head that’s counting the hours to shut the hell up. Laying down the law will quiet that nagging part of my brain. “Boundaries are healthy. So everyone knows what to expect,” I add for good measure.
Dean flinches almost imperceptibly, but still, it’s there. “Of course, especially when we’re”—he stops, seems to almost let the words roll around on his tongue—“enjoying the scenery.”
I nod, making sure we’re both clear on the sitch. “I like scenery. I like to enjoy the scenery. But I also like to make sure everyone knows what to expect from the scenery. Know what I mean?”
He jerks his gaze to me, his eyes saying Oh no, you didn’t. “Pardon me?”
Uh-oh. I might have overstepped. “I’m just saying I’m busy, as you know,” I say, going for diplomacy before I quickly add, “So are you.”
“Very busy. So this is very temporary.” It comes out clipped.
And it feels like this conversation is veering straight out of riling each other up and right into pissing-each-other-off territory. But I don’t stop it from heading in that direction.
Instead, I pat my chest. “Don’t worry. I don’t do serious.”
“I don’t either,” Dean says, straightening his spine.
“Then we’re all good,” I say, my jaw tight, because he agrees so quickly, and that’s good, but it irks me too, for some stupid reason.
“So good,” he adds quickly.
I square my shoulders, unable to let this go. “For the record, I’m not interested in relationships. I’m not interested in anything more than what this is,” I say, pointing from Dean to me and back.
His jaw ticks. “This is what it is, Fitz. It’s not anything more.” His dark eyes narrow, like I’ve gone too far and he needs to correct me. “You don’t have to act like I’m one of your boys on the road who doesn’t know any better. Who thinks he can shag an athlete and keep him around.”
“I’m not acting that way,” I say indignantly, wrapping my hands around the railing.
Dean gives a nonchalant shrug, but his words aren’t casual. “You kind of are. You’re acting, for some utterly absurd reason, like I’m some sort of lost soul, looking to attach myself to you.” He doesn’t raise his voice, doesn’t shout. He simply speaks in a cool, calm tone here on Tower Bridge. “I have a life here, one I love,” Dean says, taking off his shades, and his eyes aren’t hot like I’m used to. They’re ice-cold, and they’re chilling my blood. “I have my bar—that’s my home. I have my father and the things we do together. I’m having dinner with him tomorrow night, and this weekend we’re restoring a chair. And I have Sam, and Naveen and Anya, and Taron. And Maeve, most of all.
You don’t need to keep reminding me that this is a fling. I was there yesterday when we made the rules. I’m not going to break them.” He draws a deep breath, then goes quieter when he finishes with “James.”
The way Dean says my name stabs me.
Like an ice pick in the chest.
It’s cold, and I deserve it.
Because I did piss him off. I started this. I pushed us into an argument by drawing a line in the sand over and over, by saying, Don’t step over this, no, really, don’t step over this. I should have stuck to sex and laughter, to what I’m good at. I’m shit at anything more because I don’t do anything more, not with anyone.
But I also know this—I don’t want to be the guy who puts that look in Dean’s eyes. Because he’s staring at me like I am a dick.
And I’m pretty sure I just acted like one.
My chest pinches, and regret swirls inside me.
Even though we won’t ever be anything more, I want the now of us to be as good as it was last night, and this morning, and in between.
I speak to him in the one language I’m most fluent in—the physical.
I grab his face, hold his cheeks, and meet his gaze. “I’m sorry,” I mutter, then I kiss his luscious lips, trying to say I’m sorry that way too. When the kiss ends, he still looks annoyed, but not as much. “I just want to have fun with you. I didn’t mean to go overboard about the rules. I know you get it. Sometimes I worry because—”
“Because others have wanted more from you?” he asks gently.
I nod, thinking of the times a hookup has asked to go home with me, to stay for breakfast, to go to the movies or brunch. “Yeah. But I bet that happens to you too. You’re a catch, Dean. I’m sure all the guys want you.”
“I’m sure they all want you,” he says, and the chill has begun to thaw.
I drag a hand through my hair, hunting for the best way to make it clear that I’m a happy camper with the status quo, and that I bet he is too. “I don’t want to make it seem like you’re like them. I get it. I get you. You and me,” I say, patting his chest, then mine. “We’re the same. We’re happy with our lives as they are. No need to change things, right?”
A tiny sliver of a smile seems to tug at his lips. “We are the same. No strings, no expectations. We’ll just enjoy the next few days. I won’t call you James again.”
I offer a fist for knocking. “Knock me, bro.”
He folds his arms across his chest, but he smiles. “No. There will be no ‘bro.’ No knocking.”
“Hey! I just realized I don’t even know your last name.”
His brown eyes twinkle. “Ah, maybe it’s better that way. So you can’t track me down after the affair is over.”
I roll my eyes, sighing heavily. “All right. Serve it up. You know I’m not tracking you down.”
“Collins. Dean Collins,” he says. Then he extends a hand. “Let’s make a deal. I won’t use James when I’m mad, because you won’t make me mad, and you won’t have any need to use Collins. Because neither one of us will do anything to piss off the other in the next seventy-two hours.”
I rein in a grin that threatens to overtake my face. He’s just as aware of how many hours we have left as I am.
I take his hand, clasping mine around it. “I won’t use it in anger. But I do think it’s hot as fuck. Much like you are.” A rumble works its way through my throat as I savor the feel of his full name on my lips. “Dean Collins.” I don’t let go of his hand. Instead, I yank him to me, his chest inches from mine, his pelvis so close. “Dean Collins,” I say again, his name heating me up. “I’m going to fuck you so good tonight.”
In a flash, he’s back. The heat in his eyes. The parting of his lips. The signs that he wants me.
“Show me,” he says in that challenging tone he uses. “Kiss me right now the way you want to tonight.”
“Gladly.” I grab the back of his head and plant a hot, fierce kiss on his lips, on Tower Bridge in front of everyone walking by, not caring in the least.
When we separate, I wiggle my brows. “Okay, you ready to take my picture?”
He laughs. “Yes, I want to be completely turned on when I snap your pic.”
I clap his back. “Just think of tea cakes or the queen, mate,” I toss back at him.
More laughter. Then Dean schools his expression, clears his throat, and mutters, “God save the queen.” He gestures to his crotch. “Voilà. Done.”
“So impressive, your deflation technique.”
“Thank you very much.”
I snap a quick selfie in the middle of the bridge to show London Bridge – not falling down – up the river. Then we walk to the other side of the bridge as it wraps around the water. “More pics. Amelia will like this one better anyway since it looks more like a bridge in a book and she loves to read. I practically read her a whole Calvin and Hobbes book at a softball game earlier this summer when we were sitting in the bleachers while everyone else was playing.”
“Because softball wasn’t her thing either?” Dean teases.
“Ha. No. Because I’m a good guy and I was watching my friend’s kid.”
He flashes me a smile. “She likes you. That’s sweet.”
“She likes Calvin and Hobbes now too. And hockey. I’ve been training her to like hockey from a young age.”
“And you’ve succeeded?”
I give him my best cocky grin. “I have. Don’t worry.” I curl a hand around his shoulder. “I’ll convert you next.”
He grins. “Stranger things have happened. All right. Let’s get on this.”
Lining up the shot, I stand on the walkway, the bridge behind us, the water too. It’s a good shot, but the thing is, it’d be better with both of us. It just would.
“Join me in the pic.”
He shakes his head. “I don’t think your friend’s daughter wants to see me.”
“Get in here,” I say, motioning him closer. “She’ll be impressed I’m on the bridge with a real Londoner.”
He arches a brow. “You truly want me to join you?”
“It’s a photo. It’s not a promise ring.”
“You ass,” he mutters under his breath, but he’s smiling again, and we’re us, having a good time, riling each other up.
Dean slides in by my side. I angle my phone out so that I can see both of us perfectly positioned in front of the famous landmark.
And we look good together.
Damn good.
For a flash of a second, before I take the pic, a series of images flicker before my eyes.
Unbidden.
Out of nowhere.
I don’t ask for them, but they arrive fully formed, and I can see us like this. Checking out the world. Going to Amsterdam. To Copenhagen. To Paris. Taking pictures in front of tourist icons.
Pictures for my sisters, for Amelia, for my mom.
And for me. Most of all, for me.
That’s why I want this shot.
Amelia doesn’t care. That was a half-truth. I wanted to see how I looked here with him, with this man I can’t get enough of.
Something about the way the two of us are together makes me feel like we could have that life. Those times. Those days and nights.
That he could be my man.
Then I blink the insane thought away.
Because what the hell?
That’s not me. That’s not what I want.
That won’t happen.
And as soon as I’m fully aware of that thought, I squash it, keeping it far, far away.
I snap a couple of pictures.
“There. Done,” I say, then tuck my phone away before even looking at them. “I’m starving. Want to grab some lunch?”
He says yes, and I focus on food, not on the runaway thoughts that briefly, only briefly, invaded my brain.
They return later that day, and I do my best to quell them, to keep everything light and breezy.
But it’s not as easy as it was even a few hours ago.
19
Dean
After we eat, we roam around the city. I ask him about hockey. Even though I don’t see myself becoming a fan, I’m genuinely curious how the game works, what the best strategies are. I like learning new things, and Fitz is an excellent teacher when it comes to his sport.
As we walk, he shares the ins and outs with me, and I can start to appreciate his passion for the game.
He asks about my dad and the things we do together. I tell him I see my dad often and that we have dinner once a week, sometimes more. I mention Penny at the coffee shop, and how I think she has her eye on him.
“Is your dad into her?”
“I dunno. I’d love to see him date again.”
“He hasn’t dated since your mom left?”
“He has. But nothing too serious. A few girlfriends now and then. It would be nice to see him fall in love.”
“I hear ya. I was pretty stoked when my mom met her new husband a few years ago. He’s a genuinely good guy, and he treats her like a queen.”
“The Fitz seal of approval.”
“It’s good to see her happy. I hope your dad finds that.”
“Me too.”
I ask about his friends in New York, and he goes on about some guys on the team, then tells me about Summer and Logan. “He’s a cool cat. Very intense and driven, but with a great deadpan sense of humor. He met this woman a few months ago and he’s head over heels in love with Bryn. And then his sister Summer is hilarious. She’s involved with Oliver, another good bud of mine. He’s English too,” Fitz adds.
“Oh, you know another Englishman?” We walk along a side street, passing a newsstand.
“Yes, we have Brits in New York. He’s lived there since he was thirteen or fourteen though.”
“A transplant.”
“Does that still count in your book?”
“Sure. As long as he’s loyal to . . . proper football,” I tease, then tip my forehead to another side street.
Fitz scoffs. “Too late. I’ve trained him to love hockey, as it should be.”
“Of course you have.”
We turn down the street and reach Leadenhall Market, a covered market with an ornate roof. “Here you go. This is the Leaky Cauldron.”
A Guy Walks Into My Bar Page 13
