Instant Gratification

by Blakely, Lauren

  Marcus Hemsworth beams from here to London, then all the way back. “You’ll adore it, then. There’s almost no bittering hops, and in addition to that, we layered in loads of aroma hops in the whirlpool. Who doesn’t love a whirlpool?”

  “Whirlpools rock.”

  “That they do.”

  “And what kind of aroma hops were rocking out in the whirlpool?”

  Fucking hell. Could she be any more excited about the beer? It’s a pint, for fuck’s sake. You drink it; it tastes good. End of story.

  “The best kind. The brewer uses the Citra hop, which brings the most tantalizing orange, grapefruit, and lime flavors. It takes the beer to a whole new level. A heavenly level. Do you know what I mean?”

  “There is nothing I want more in a beer than for it to be heavenly.”

  “But then, that’s what good beer is. Like angels concocted it on high.”

  Have I slipped into an alternate world? One where barmen look like matinee idols and talk like Daniel Craig and captivate my woman?

  I mean, my friend.

  She’s just a friend, and she’s allowed to be interested in hops.

  I remind myself that emotions like envy are unbecoming to my entire worldview.

  “Let me pour that for you.” Marcus spins around and crosses the bar to the taps.

  I shoot her a curious stare. “Want me to leave you alone to chat with Daniel Craig-Hemsworth?”

  “Aww, you’re jealous.”

  “No. Please. Not at all.”

  “I’m just interested in how the beer is made. You don’t have to be so green.”

  “Not jealous. Not in the least.”

  She holds up her thumb and forefinger. “Maybe a little? I mean, he does have a nice accent, you have to admit. Not that yours isn’t ever so lovely too,” she says, slipping a posh accent onto the last few words.

  I jerk back. “I don’t sound like that.”

  “You don’t think you sound like Hugh Bonneville?” she asks, continuing in that high-class tone.

  “Like a rich, stuffy uncle? Are you kidding me?”

  “He’s delightful to listen to. Like Jim Dale. Don’t you like the Harry Potter voice? Astonishing things were happening, and all that.”

  “One, Jim Dale is a national treasure, so naturally, I think he’s the cat’s whiskers. Two, I do not sound like Jim Dale or Hugh Bonneville.”

  “Maybe Hugh Grant, then?”

  “Daniel Craig,” I say, standing my ground.

  With utter amusement in her eyes, she sets her hand on my arm. “You’re completely jealous that you’re not the only Brit in the room, aren’t you?”

  “Please. As if.”

  “Jealous. Calling it.”

  “Not an ounce of it in me.”

  “Liar.”

  “Woman, you are relentless.”

  She shimmies her shoulders in a little victory dance. “I am indeed.”

  A few seconds later, Marcus turns around, sets down the pints, and issues a declaration. “I promise you this pale ale will coat your palate, and you’ll love every second of it going down your throat.” He blinks, realization hitting him clearly. “Er, sorry. That sounded . . .well, sometimes I get carried away.”

  Truly regards the glass with a smile. “We all get carried away sometimes, Marcus.”

  I groan. The innuendo. Dear God, the innuendo. I can’t take it anymore.

  Another customer walks in, and Marcus gestures to the man in a cap who’s surveying the beer board. Yes, go away, Marcus. Go away, this instant.

  “Now, I’ll be right over there. If you need anything at all, just shout. I’ll be here for you.” He’s Frasier again, and he takes off, possibly to begin a history lesson with a new customer.

  Truly lifts her glass. “I like him.”

  I flinch and try to blink back my shock. “You like him?”

  That wasn’t what I wanted her to say.

  17

  Jason

  I point to Hemsworth. “Him? You like him?”

  “Yeah, he’s a character. I like to call that type . . . the soapbox bartender.” She taps her chest. “Personally, I’m a mixologist. But the mixologist gets along well with the soapboxer because we’re both kind of obsessed with what goes into drinks.”

  “And you like him?” I ask again, still incredulous.

  “I like him professionally,” she says, then presses the back of her hand against my forehead. “You really ought to see if your temperature has risen from this fit of jealousy.”

  “I’m cool as ice.”

  “Then, since you’re so unaffected by him, take a drink and give an honest opinion.”

  I down some of the IPA, and it’s pretty damn tasty. “It’s okay,” I admit grudgingly. “Maybe you and Soapbox want to discuss it.”

  She laughs and drinks her beer. “I’ve never seen you so wound up. It’s adorable.”

  “I’m not wound up, and I’m not adorable.”

  She pokes my side. “Totally adorable.”

  Laughing, I blurt out, “That tickles.”

  “You’re ticklish?” This seems to delight her to the ends of the earth.

  “It’s my curse.”

  She darts her fingers out again, prodding my sides. I squirm away, trying not to laugh. “That’s too cute.”

  “Not cute,” I mutter. “Not cute at all.”

  She takes another swallow, then sets down the glass, her nose crinkling. “This beer is tickling me, but I do love a little beer tickle.”

  Damn, she’s cute with her nose crinkling and her talk of tickling and her calling me adorable. And none of this, none of it whatsoever, ought to be appealing. But it is, so I reroute the conversation to where it started. Me. Us. Not that guy or his beer. “So, you listen to me? When I’m on Ryder’s show?”

  “Maybe I do a little.”

  “Or perhaps a lot?”

  She licks her lips, smiling. “I like hearing what you have to say. You have interesting observations. On life, on men, on relationships. On business. It’s kind of fascinating.”

  A smile tugs at my lips, coming from deep inside. “Thank you. That means a lot.”

  “I read your blog too.” It doesn’t come out like a confession, more like she’s pleased to share this news.

  “You really do?”

  “And I really enjoy it.”

  And I’m lit up, beaming with pride. This is even better than flirting. The fact that she likes reading my columns and listening to my advice warms me up. Hell, maybe it’s similar to how I enjoy listening when she tells stories of her love of mixology and how she names cocktails. “I’m stoked to hear that.”

  “You always have something to say. And I like your opinions. They fascinate me. What made you this way? Why did you want to become the”—she stops to sketch air quotes—“‘Modern Gentleman of New York’?”

  I sigh, wishing I had a lighter answer for her. But I don’t. “Let’s just say I’ve seen people behave in ways that aren’t exactly the best. So I try to offer suggestions on how we can be better.”

  “What sort of things? Is it related to your dad? I know you’re not close with him.”

  The mere mention of him sends a jolt of tension down my spine. “That’s true, and also a complete understatement.”

  “Did something else happen? Beyond the obvious—him leaving your mom?”

  I take another drink, finishing the glass, then bite off the bitter truth. “After he left her and ran away with the other woman, his own mum was sick. She lived here in the States, since he was born here.”

  She nods. “Yes, he’s why you have dual citizenship.”

  “One good thing I got from him, I reckon. The ability to live on either side of the ocean, no questions asked. In any case, my nan was quite ill, yet he couldn’t be bothered to come over and look after her. I came instead, cared for her, stayed with her till the end.” I take time with each word. Those are days I don’t want to revisit but want to give their proper weight.
>
  “That’s terrible he wouldn’t take care of his own mom,” Truly says softly, placing her hand over mine. I stare at her hand for a second, and it feels good. Like it belongs there. “Do you ever speak to him?”

  “No. I don’t want to. Don’t care to. There’s really no point. I have nothing to say to the man.”

  “Did you want to return to London? After she passed? Or did your ex turn you completely off going home?”

  “Good question. I did want to return at the time, but when Claire took off with the barber, it made me rethink everything.”

  “Like what?”

  “Where I wanted to live, what I wanted to do. I mean, for life. Not just cobbling together a little bit of this, a little bit of that. It was my second time in the States, since I’d been here for college. So I had to decide if I wanted to go home and chase gigs in London at The Guardian and whatnot, or stay here. When I landed some assignments at a New York-based website, the decision seemed made for me.”

  “Any regrets?”

  I flash back on the last six years here, the times I’ve had, the friends I’ve made, and the work I’ve done. “Not a one.”

  “To no regrets.” She raises her glass with a smile, and I clink mine against hers.

  “Enough about my soap-operatic family. Let’s talk about pubs. Have you figured out if this place is the model for a perfect pub or not?”

  “I think it’s pretty close, but I can’t shake the sense that there’s something slightly off.” She whips her gaze around the place. She stands, paces like an archaeologist, studying all the nooks and crannies at Fox and Frog’s Finest. She heads to the back room, with the pool table, table football, and trivia machine. “I think something’s missing from here.”

  I flash her a smile. “You’re getting warmer.”

  She spins the poles on the table football then lets it go. It clatters as it circles and stops. “Okay, guinea pig, what is it?”

  I smile at her nickname. “You were heading in the right direction. It’s missing . . .” I mime tossing a small arrow at the wall.

  “Oh my God. There are no darts. No dartboard.”

  “You can’t have a proper traditional pub without a proper dartboard.”

  “Yes! Exactly! I saw dartboards in all the pubs I was researching. I can’t believe I missed it.”

  “This is your first in-person lesson in pubs. Don’t be hard on yourself.”

  She lifts an eyebrow. “I’ll leave that part to you. Being hard on me.”

  A wicked grin crosses my lips. “Who’s relentless now?”

  She bumps shoulders with me. “Too bad there’s no dartboard. Darts would have been fun.”

  I tuck a strand of hair over her ear. “I’d have enjoyed watching you play.”

  “I’d have enjoyed beating you.” She tips her forehead to the bar. “Also, thanks for sharing back there.”

  I mime ripping my chest open. “It pained me, woman.”

  “I could tell, but I appreciate you telling me. I like knowing what motivates you, especially since I know you’re not big on”—she gasps—“emotions.”

  “You’re not exactly an open book either.”

  She tilts her head to the side. “I’m not?”

  “You’re pretty much a full-speed-ahead kind of woman. You don’t linger on . . . feelings.”

  A crease forms in her brow. “I’m not sure that’s true. But maybe it seems that way because you know my story already. I don’t hold back. I’ve told you about Sarah. You know I’m close to my family and my brother. You know I still miss my dad, even though he’s been gone eighteen years. And you know I’m a workaholic. You know me. Maybe that’s why it’s easy for us to be friends?”

  Her question is entirely earnest, but my answer isn’t, even though I try to make it seem that way. “Right. It’s incredibly easy.”

  But the truth is, it’s not at all simple being her friend.

  It’s becoming one of the hardest things I’ve done.

  * * *

  Soon it’s time to leave, and as Truly gathers her purse, Marcus gives us a goodbye salute. “Cheers. Come back sometime. I want to share a new type of malt we’re bringing in. I’d love to tell you about it. It tastes like grapeseed oil and sunflowers.”

  “That sounds fantastic.” Truly hums then taps the bar. “Also, I had an idea for you. It’s all about beer.”

  My fists clench. Please, God, can she stop talking to him?

  “I’d love to hear it.”

  “I think you should write a blog about beer. You have a lot of insight. You ought to share it with the world. That is, if you don’t blog about it already.”

  He strokes his chin. “Actually, I do. But it’s been kind of a hard slog. I want to share my love of beer with the world, but I’d much rather talk about it than write about it.”

  “Start a beer podcast, then.”

  He snaps his fingers, his eyes lighting up. “That’s a damn good idea. I’ve been looking into ways to expand.”

  “Always hustling,” she says, then gestures to me. “That’s what he says.”

  “That’s good advice, mate.”

  “Thanks. Happy to give it,” I say grudgingly.

  I check the time, clearing my throat as if to remind her she has someplace to be.

  “One more second,” she says to me, and fantastic, now I’m the annoying dick who’s trying to herd her out of here.

  “If you want to talk about it, I’m Truly Goodman. I run Gin Joint in Chelsea.”

  He gasps. “I love that place. I was there the other weekend. Heard that guy sing and had a Hush Money. Best gin cocktail I’ve had in ages.”

  Truly’s smile hits new levels on the Richter scale of delight, and I want to shove a sock in this guy’s mouth. “That’s my brother. He’s a lounge singer and a veterinarian. Or, I should say, he’s a vet and a lounge singer. And Hush Money is mine.”

  “It was delicious. Like heaven in a glass.”

  I scrub a hand across the back of my neck, wishing this exchange would stop.

  “Thank you. I appreciate that. And the beer was great.”

  “No, thank you. Your idea is fantastic. You’re amazing. I could kiss you.”

  Every territorial instinct in me snaps to attention, calling up the caveman that lurks within. Draping an arm around Truly, I tug her close. I can’t not. “Sorry, mate. I’ve got dibs on that.”

  His eyes pop out like they’re attached to springs. He raises his hands like stop signs, and his voice brims with contrition. “Sorry, sorry. I didn’t mean anything by that.”

  “No worries.” I flash him a grin, even as I bring her closer to me because she fits fucking perfectly there. She fits against me like she belongs.

  We leave, and when we reach the street, I let go of her. She swivels to face me, a challenge written across her eyes. “And what if I wanted him to kiss me?”

  “Did you? Did you want to kiss Marcus?”

  She parks her hands on her hips. “Well, if I did, you just ruined it.”

  “I thought you weren’t interested in dating. That was what you said on Sunday.”

  “And I meant it. I wasn’t trying to date Marcus, for God’s sake. I was not picking him up. We were talking about work.”

  “You two were pretty damn chatty.”

  “It was business. I was learning from him. Stop being such a jealous ass.”

  “Ass? Now I’m an ass?”

  “You are kind of acting like one.”

  “Well, pardon me, then. I’ll just leave so you can return to Marcus the soapbox bartender, who looks like he sprang from Central Casting for Movie Stars.”

  She raises an eyebrow. “Are you serious?”

  I wave a hand in his direction. “Oh, come on now.”

  “I didn’t even notice.”

  “You didn’t notice he looks like . . . like . . .” Well, I’m not going to point it out to her.

  “I told you. I was only interested in talking to him about beer.
I was only interested in learning more about the business. This is business for me.” She stabs at her chest with one finger. “Hello? Workaholic here. Just like you.”

  I huff sullenly and mutter an apology. “Sorry.” Then, because that’s not how apologies work and I should know better, I man up and meet her gaze. “I’m sorry I acted like a jealous ass. But I still don’t think Marcus is your type.”

  She raises her chin. “How do you know?”

  Adrenaline courses through me. It’s this argument, Marcus, the whole damned night. I step closer, lift a hand, and run my thumb over her jawline. “Because you are the kind of woman who needs a particular kind of kiss, and he’s not the man who can give it to you.”

  “What type of kiss do I need?” she asks, and it comes out breathy. I want to hear that sound again. I want to be the reason she makes it.

  I move closer, and she doesn’t back away. I need to get other men out of her head. I need to erase them, so I say, “Hot, hard, deep, and completely consuming.”

  She swallows, her voice a little wobbly but still fierce. “How do you know that’s what I need?”

  “Because when I kissed you that night, you melted. You turned boneless. You said no one had ever kissed you that way before.”

  Her words are some kind of invitation. “Maybe I like it soft and slow now.”

  “Do you?”

  “Perhaps.” It lasts for five syllables, and with the vibration of each one, I move closer. I run a hand down her arm. Goosebumps trail in my wake, and she doesn’t pull away.

  “Perhaps you do,” I repeat. She’s inches from me. Her eyes lock with mine and heat flashes across hers. “Only one way to find out.”

  I slide a hand into her hair, then brush my lips over hers, barely kissing her, hardly touching. It’s enough to drive me wild, to make me want more. To make me want her again, want her more than I already do. This woman taunts me, tempts me.

  And I want her to feel tempted too.

  Her soft lips seal against mine, and even though I’ve kissed her hard and hot and heavy, even though I’ve kissed her like I’m going to fuck her, tonight isn’t for devouring.

  I give her exactly what she asked for—soft and slow.

  How much I enjoy it takes me by surprise. It’s like we’re discovering a new way to kiss. I bring her closer. She parts her lips, and the second she does, my mind goes haywire, wild with images of what might come next. Here on the streets of Tribeca, I can barely contain the desire that rockets through me.