A Guy Walks Into My Bar

by Lauren Blakely

I bet I can imagine his face right now. Hell, I don’t need to imagine it. I FaceTime him, and immediately a satisfied-looking Dean shows up on my screen. Looks like he’s at his new bar—The Pub.

  “You told him, didn’t you? About these?”

  I flip the screen so he can see the sunflowers, and then I flip back to me. Dean dares to look innocent. Not just pretending-to-look-innocent either. Actually innocent.

  “I honestly have no idea what you’re talking about. But are those from a guy? Are you dating?”

  “Sam sent these. As a thank you for going to his friend’s party.”

  Dean laughs. “So you are dating.”

  I roll my eyes. “Never mind. But you didn’t tell him about the flowers?”

  “I swear I didn’t. I don’t have that much of a cupid in me. Plus, some men, you know, remember things about the people they like.”

  I hum, kind of doubtful, then say goodbye.

  I pace around The Magpie, then get out my phone, snap a picture, and send it to Sam.

  Maeve: Thank you for these. How’d you know they’re my favorite?

  Sam: Good! I was hoping that hadn’t changed. You mentioned it a while back. Something about the way they make everything seem just a little lighter, right?

  The memory comes back to me all of a sudden. Sam, Naveen, Anya, Dean—all of us walking along the Thames last summer. We talked about our perfect Sunday, and I’d casually mentioned that every Sunday should start with fresh flowers.

  Sunflowers, in particular.

  For exactly the reason he’d said.

  But that was almost a year ago. How in the world had he remembered?

  Sam: It always stuck with me. Now, I can’t see a sunflower without thinking about you.

  Maeve: That’s the sweetest thing anyone’s ever said to me.

  Really, thank you. I don’t know how I’ll make it up to you after the charity event.

  For a minute, the bouncing dots keep appearing and disappearing on my screen. Then, finally, a message pops up.

  Sam: You could wear those yoga pants again.

  Maeve: The yoga pants really do it for you, huh?

  Sam: Or jeans. Or anything, actually. I’m not really

  particular. You look good in everything, Maeve.

  Maeve: You do too.

  I want to keep flirting. But I’m still so wary.

  What if we don’t like dating as much as we like being friends? There’s no reset button. I dwell on it for a day, and then two.

  But surely if I can be friends with a gorgeous, sweet, kind man who somehow remembered my favorite flower, then being more than friends shouldn’t intimidate me.

  Finally, I decide it’s time. If my best friend can move across an ocean, I can let go of my hurt.

  And give a real date a real chance.

  The Night of Lost Stars I twist my hair up into a chignon and choose some chandelier earrings that brush my neck. After some consideration, I pick out a violet dress with a slit up the side. I swipe on some lipstick, steeling myself for the emotions that inevitably come my way at this event each year.

  I take in a breath just as my doorbell rings.

  I pull on my heels and grab my clutch. On the way out, I glance at myself in the mirror. Tendrils of hair frame my face, and not even an eyelash is out of place.

  I’m ready.

  Sam meets me at the door looking insanely sexy in a fitted suit. He sees me and whistles.

  “Damn,” he says. “This is how you should dress all the time.”

  I laugh. “Likewise. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen you in a suit.”

  “Get used to it,” he says. “If I have to wear this to get you to wear that, then suits are my new wardrobe.”

  Sam’s already called a Lyft for us, and it pulls up just as we reach the pavement. He opens the back door for me, and we slide in.

  He clears his throat. “So, what’s this event tonight about? What’re we saving? Animals? Babies?”

  I don’t answer right away. I take a breath first, wishing there weren’t another person here. Still, our driver hasn’t so much as glanced back since we got in, so I shouldn’t use him as an excuse.

  Time for honesty. Full-on.

  “It’s to support ALS research, actually,” I say, sounding just a little bit fragile. “Which . . . my dad died from.”

  “Oh,” Sam says, his deep brown eyes going soft and sincere. “Maeve, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”

  “It’s okay,” I say. “It was seven years ago. But my mum and I used to always go to this together. And then, Dean used to go with me, but now . . .”

  “Now I’m here,” he says. “And I’ve already made a joke of it.”

  “No,” I say. “I’m glad you’re here. Honestly, I don’t know that I’ve ever told someone about my dad without crying. And now, look. Mascara still firmly in place.”

  I laugh, and Sam laughs with me.

  I feel lighter about this than I ever expected.

  “Well, then, let’s go raise as much money as we can in your dad’s honor,” he says as we pull into the event. “Can I bid on a boat? I’ve always wanted to bid on a boat.”

  Tsking, I shake my head. “Boys and their toys.” Soon, Sam’s taking my hand and walking me into Novotel London West. We make our way to the event space, passing people who look like they’re made of money.

  We check out the auction items, browsing through signed movie posters and football jerseys and, finally, a signed Ed Sheeran guitar. It’s white and glittery with a gold signature on the front.

  “My mum says his songs remind her of my dad.”

  “Then let’s bid on it.”

  Sam looks down at the bidding card. “One thousand pounds. I’ll split it with you. We have to go in on this.”

  I shoot him a skeptical glance. “Sam, do you even like Ed Sheeran?”

  “Doesn’t matter,” he says, dead certain. “We’re doing this.”

  “How are we going to split a guitar in half?”

  “We’ll have joint custody. Half the time at my place, half the time at yours.”

  “Ridiculous,” I say, but I’m laughing, and that feels good too.

  “It’ll give you a reason to visit,” he says in a flirty tone.

  While I reel a bit at the idea of going to Sam’s home, he’s putting down a bid for the guitar. We’re outbid for it before we’ve gotten more than ten paces away, but that’s okay because we’re having fun.

  As the night winds down, Sam and I call another car. We tumble in, laughing about everything and nothing at all. We pull up to my flat, and there’s no question—I’ve never ended this evening feeling this light or this good.

  Sam did that. Sam, who kept my spirits up during the event. Sam, who remembered the sunflowers. Sam, who’s kind and funny and thoughtful.

  He walks me up to my steps and takes my hand to kiss my knuckles.

  “We’ll have to do this again sometime,” he says, his lips curving into a knowing grin. “You know, I’ve got this wedding to go to. Not sure if you’d be interested. It’s transatlantic.”

  “You don’t say?”

  He laughs, and I decide it’s time for fun. For chances.

  For choices.

  I nibble on my lip, meet his gaze, and go for it. “Would you like to kiss me? Because I’d really like to kiss you.”

  “What do you know? I’d love to kiss you too.”

  He cups my cheek, brings his lips to mine, and dusts a soft, gentle kiss to my lips.

  One that sends tingles down my spine.

  And one that doesn’t stay soft for long.

  I kiss him back harder, and he tugs me closer, and soon we’re kissing like we don’t want to come up for air.

  We make our way up to my flat, kicking off heels and shoes and losing ourselves in each other. I catch a glimpse of the table where the sunflowers have lasted remarkably well in their vase, and I smile, as sure as I ever have been about a decision in my life.

  After a b
eautiful wedding ceremony, Sam holds my hand as we watch Dean and Fitz take their first dance in the middle of the Loeb Boathouse’s dance floor. As they finish, Sam presses a kiss against my temple, and warmth thrills through me.

  How could I have ever thought to say no to this?

  I laugh and lean against him. He’s running his hand along my knee when the DJ changes the song to “Thinking Out Loud.”

  “Oh my God,” I say. “This is the guitar!”

  “What?” Sam says, and then he listens. “Is this Ed . . . what’s-his-name? The guy with the guitar that we bid on?”

  I nod and laugh harder. “The guitar we were robbed of.”

  “It’s a sign,” Sam says. He stands up next to me and holds out his hand. “We didn’t get a chance to slow dance before,” he says with a smile. “How about we fix that?”

  My hand slides into his, and we glide over to the dance floor. I catch sight of Dean and Fitz dancing too, and my heart gives a tiny flip.

  Remember when we promised this wouldn’t be us? I think. And as if he can hear me, Dean glances my way. He smiles and shakes his head before turning back to Fitz, looking like a guy who can’t believe his luck.

  I laugh as Sam twirls me, and when he catches me, we’re closer than ever. I look up into his eyes and find his are gazing right into mine.

  “So, what’re we going to do now that we’re out of parties and events to go to?” Sam asks.

  I pretend to think about it. “Hmm, I guess we’ll just have to keep having mind-blowing sex all the time.”

  “Oh man,” he says. “Not sure I’ll be able to make that work.”

  “No?”

  “I’d have to make it official first. Officially date,” he says. “And you’ll have to meet my friends.”

  I laugh, and he catches my mouth in a kiss. It’s a shiver that doesn’t go away, spreading from where his lips touch mine.

  This, I could do forever.

  And maybe, just maybe, I will.

  That Night and On Into the Next Few Years

  Also Known As, what happens next after you change your life for love…

  One Last Epilogue

  Dean

  After I dance with my husband’s mum and all his sisters, and after he dances with Maeve and Anya and Summer and Bryn, I toss my suit jacket on the back of a chair. Eager to steal a moment away from everyone else, I make my way toward the terrace overlooking the lake at Central Park, tossing a glance at the man I just married.

  I tip my forehead in the direction I’m heading, my eyes saying Join me. Since I’d like a moment alone with him, and I’ve barely had that all night. With a knowing nod, he sheds his jacket on a chair too and follows me outside.

  Resting my elbows on the railing, I gaze at the lights of New York as Fitz slides a hand up my back, draping his arm around my shoulder. “Hey you.”

  “Hi.” It’s so simple, those words from each of us. Nothing special. But it’s how we greet each other when it’s only us. It’s our language, it’s how we reconnect.

  Glancing around the quiet terrace, he squeezes my shoulder. “You angling for a quickie out here?”

  I roll my eyes. “No. Sorry to break your heart there.”

  He frowns, snapping his fingers. “Dammit.”

  I make a shooing gesture. “By all means, go back inside, then.”

  He laughs, squeezing me harder. “Fine, so you just needed a moment alone with me for a hot kiss. I’ll settle for that, as long as you admit you can’t resist me.”

  I loop an arm around his waist. “I think we already established that one a long, long time ago, Fitz.”

  “I’m happy to keep establishing that fact every damn day.”

  “Then where’s the hot kiss?”

  “Oh, now you want it?”

  “Don’t I always?”

  He obliges, giving me a searing kiss here on the patio with all of our guests inside. “That’s just a teaser for later.”

  I hold up a finger to make a point. “Which will not be a quickie.”

  “No fucking way, babe. We’ll make it last on our wedding night.”

  “Like we always do,” I say with a smile, then turn back to the skyline.

  He stares out at the city too, then takes a deep breath, exhaling, sounding ridiculously content. “Mr. Collins.”

  He says my name like he’s tasting it, like he’s savoring it on his tongue.

  “Mr. Fitzgerald,” I say.

  He returns his gaze to me, his tone less playful, more earnest. “You look good married.”

  A warm, buzzy sensation winds through my body, and I don’t think it’s from the champagne I’ve drunk tonight. “And why’s that?”

  He brushes his knuckles along my jaw. “Because you look happy.”

  “Of course I am.”

  “Yeah?” There’s the slightest bit of nerves in his voice, like the night at the club in London when we danced and he asked if I minded dancing in public.

  “Why do you ask? Do you really wonder if I am?”

  Briefly, he nuzzles my neck, then pulls back. “I just like to make sure.”

  I loop a hand around his neck, threading my fingers through his hair. “I am very, very happy.”

  “It’s a good look on you,” Fitz says.

  “Keep putting it there,” I say, before I realize the double entendre. But I bet he’ll pick up on it in three, two, one . . .

  “I will. I promise. Always.” Then he brings his mouth to my ear. “Also, I’ll keep putting it everywhere.” And he pushes his pelvis against me.

  I crack up. “I knew it. I was counting down in my head. I fucking knew you’d be unable to resist that.”

  “How can I resist when you make it so easy?” He runs his hand around the back of my neck, an appreciative rumble in his throat as he hauls me close. The two of us, we’ve never been good at keeping our hands off each other. “Speaking of easy . . .”

  “Are you trying to cop a feel again?”

  Fitz shakes his head. “Just trying to kiss the groom one more time.”

  “Let me help you, then.”

  I grab his face and bring his lips to mine, kissing him for the hundredth time today.

  I close my eyes and savor every second of my mouth on his. My tongue sliding between his lips, the hunger in our kiss, the way it makes my head hazy and my chest hot.

  Mostly, how it never gets old.

  Which is why I should stop.

  I set my hand on his chest, gently breaking the contact.

  He pouts. “I’m so sad. Why’d you stop a hot wedding kiss, babe?”

  “Because I like it too much. Always have.”

  “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

  “It’s a good thing. It’s a great thing.” I tip my forehead to the floor-to-ceiling windows that give a perfect view of all our guests inside the boathouse. “But it’s also a dangerous thing, since I suspect we’ll have to go back in there, and I don’t want to be wildly aroused the rest of the night.”

  He glances downward toward his crotch. “That ship already sailed for me.”

  I give him a serious look. “I have faith in you. You can soften.”

  “You shouldn’t have any faith in that. Ever. I’m pretty much a lost cause the rest of the night. We could just skip out early . . .”

  “Patience, Fitz. Patience. Good things come to those who wait.”

  He growls. “Now I’m more turned on. Thanks. Thanks a lot.” Then he shrugs his broad shoulders. “Whatever. I don’t care. As if they can’t all figure out I want to shag you,” he says, dipping into his English accent tool kit.

  “Classy.”

  “C’mon, Dean. It’s obvious. Anyone who looks at us is jealous.”

  “Is that so?” I ask, loving his confidence, loving the way he talks about us, how he sees us, what we have. What we’re so damn lucky to have.

  “Of course. We have it all. Love and sex. Sex and love. And all that goes with it. Happiness.” Fitz reaches for my
hand, threading his fingers through mine. “Have I told you how glad I am you moved here?”

  He tells me that every day. And every day I say the same thing in return. I tell him that now too. “Best decision I ever made.”

  He taps his chin. “Wait. Technically, wouldn’t the best decision you ever made be agreeing to a fling with me?”

  I stare at the inky sky, filled with stars. “Hmm. Fair point. That was a good one too. Since, without it, you’d never have known I’d rock your world.”

  “Exactly. So maybe that was your best decision. I think mine was walking into your bar.”

  “Obviously,” I say, then my brow knits as my brain snags on a detail I’ve never asked him. Funny, that after nearly a year together, I never thought to ask him why. “By the way, why did you go to my bar that night? Was it just coincidence?”

  Fitz grins. “You think it was fate, don’t you?”

  I laugh. “I don’t believe in fate.”

  “Of course you don’t.”

  “And why do you say that?”

  “Because you believe in facts and logic and pros and cons.”

  “So, did you make a list of pros and cons that night of various bars to go to?” I ask.

  “That’s your style, babe. You want to know why I was there?”

  “Yeah. I do. That’s why I’m asking. I’m assuming it was just random. Was it? Random?”

  He lifts a brow wolfishly. “Or are you thinking maybe I looked up the hottest bartenders in London? Found a website? Like a top ten list of sexy Brits. And I ran my finger over it, stopped, pointed at the one who looked like Michael B. Jordan, and said, ‘Damn, I hope he likes dick’?”

  I press my palm over his mouth. “Shut up. Just shut up. You’re not allowed to speak anymore.”

  He bites my palm, and when I remove my hand, he’s laughing.

  “Oliver told me about The Magpie,” he says, still chuckling.