A Guy Walks Into My Bar

by Lauren Blakely

  “You don’t want your own Hugh Grant. He’s so old now.”

  Emma laughs, ponytail bouncing as she walks ahead of me. “I meant a young, cute Hugh Grant. Obviously. And don’t act like those accents don’t charm the hell out of you.”

  “Guilty as charged. Or charmed, I should say.”

  “Indeed.”

  “And listen, I’m all for you finding a younger Hugh Grant, but you don’t have to buy your books used. You can just get the full-price ones.”

  “Yes, but I’d rather support a cool local business. Besides, just because you have the money now doesn’t mean we need to spend it.”

  Of my three sisters, Emma’s always been the most direct. Maybe it’s because she’s the baby of the family, but she has never had any problem telling me exactly how she feels about something, especially when it comes to money.

  “I’m just saying that we don’t have to be so frugal all the time,” I say. “Old habits die hard, but you can afford to splurge a little. I want you to, Ems.”

  Emma’s blue eyes soften a little. “I’d say me getting to go to the art program of my dreams is a splurge. And for that, James, aka NHL’s top D-man, I’m extremely grateful.”

  I give her shoulder a little nudge as we walk. “Don’t mention it. Nobody deserves to be there as much as you do. Plus, now you can live in the National Gallery like you always said you wanted to do.”

  “Mark my words. You’ll find me camped out by the Vermeers someday,” she says as she makes a beeline to check out a stall that’s offering free mini sliders.

  I love seeing Emma like this. She’s here, and she no longer has to worry about nabbing a scholarship for grad school like she did growing up, when she knew she wanted to be an art historian and how much tuition would be.

  For the last six years, I’ve been able to foot the bill, thanks to playing in the pros.

  We’re all still getting used to it, all three of my sisters, my mom, and me. But nothing could beat buying a house for my mom on the beach in La Jolla, a far cry from where we grew up in Lakeside.

  And hell, I’m not going to lie—it felt damn good to tell my little sister last year that she could go to England, no loan needed.

  She takes a picture with her phone, then taps something into it before she grins as she catches up to me, with a “Soooo,” dragged out and kind of coy, and I know where she’s going.

  Her favorite place.

  She’s going fishing for intel.

  “So what, Ems?”

  “So what’s your plan for tonight?” she asks with a knowing look. “With the guy. That sexy AF bartender. His face is magazine perfection.”

  “Yessssss. Very GQ.”

  “Like if Idris Elba and Angelina Jolie had a love child.”

  A laugh bursts from me. “That’s the image you’re putting out there?”

  “Idris is male perfection.” She drags a finger down her cheek. “And Angelina has great cheekbones.”

  “You realize he looks nothing like Angelina Jolie and that, in fact, I’m not attracted to Angelina Jolie?”

  “You’re not? I had nooooo idea.”

  I haul her in for a noogie, since she deserves one. “Smart-ass.”

  When I let her go, she says, “My point is that he looks like two of the hottest celebs ever. Can you agree they’re both quite pretty?”

  “Yes, they are both quite pretty,” I say, imitating her. “But maybe can we go with Idris and Chris Hemsworth?”

  Her eyes light up. “Yes. In my dreams.”

  I sigh contentedly. “Yeah, mine too.”

  I linger on that image for a few more seconds, and I’m guessing she does too—because who could resist?—before she reconnects to the present. “Are you really going to go back there though?”

  I nod decisively. “Absolutely. I’m going to go see him, and I’m going to lock that down.”

  Emma rolls her eyes. “Oh, you’re going to seal the deal, James? And how exactly do you plan to do that, since he already kind of turned you down?”

  I arch a brow. “Did he turn me down?”

  Emma laughs, nudging me. “I believe what you told me last night was that he said it wasn’t going to happen. That feels a lot like he turned you down.”

  I shrug it off. “Technically. But he also made a point of saying he wasn’t breaking his rule last night. Leaving it open for tonight. All I have to do is work my magic this evening.”

  I glance over at her, waiting for the sisterly comeback I know and love, but Emma’s not even listening. She’s peering around like she’s looking for something.

  I stop in my tracks, waving my arms. “Earth to Emma.”

  She turns and gives me an adorable smile. “Right, please tell me all about the guy you’re going after. I can’t bear to miss a single detail, even though I’ve only been hearing about the hot guys you’ve wanted for the last twelve years.”

  “I don’t think you’ve ever complained about it before,” I say.

  “Probably because I still find you far too amusing for my own good.”

  “See? I’m kind of irresistible to everyone, including my own sister. Therefore, I’m going to make sure this guy says yes to me.”

  I’ve got just the plan for tonight too. The right clothes. The right aftershave. I’ll lay on my classic mix of cocky and charming, and then, before he even knows what’s hit him, he’ll be dying to take me up on my offer.

  Hot hotel sex, here we come.

  Pun intended.

  “Well,” Emma says, with a delighted tone in her voice, “it looks like now’s your chance. There he is.”

  “What?”

  My job is to anticipate. To be ready for whatever hits me.

  But this surprises the fuck out of me.

  I turn around and blink. I’m looking at the man I wanted to take home last night. And he’s smirking at me.

  “Better than Hemsworth. Better than Elba,” I say to my sister.

  Emma leans closer and whispers, “And I think now’s the perfect time for me to go to that bookstore.”

  She makes a shooing gesture then adopts her best British accent. “Right. Cheerio. Carry on.”

  And before I can say anything more, she’s gone.

  And I don’t miss her.

  6

  Fitz

  Dean saunters over. He stops a foot away, appraising me, his dark eyes roaming up and down my body.

  Yes, enjoy the view, sexy bartender. Feel free to enjoy the view.

  “Seems like you can’t quite stay away from me,” he says, his expression a touch too close to unreadable.

  And that could be a problem if he thinks I’ve followed him. That shit is not my style. “I didn’t expect to see you here,” I say, shaking my head, trying to course correct.

  “It’s okay, Fitz. Admit it. You were kind of stalking me.”

  I hold up my hands in a stop sign. “No, I swear. I had no idea you were going to be here.”

  Dean tips his head toward the next line of booths and gives me the slightest grin. “Oh, well, then. I’ll just be on my way.”

  Like I’m letting him get away. Especially with that hint of a smile saying he doesn’t want to leave me. Yup, I’m reading him loud and clear now.

  “That’s not necessary.” I step forward, setting a hand on his arm. His strong, toned arm that looks fucking fantastic in that shirt. “I just didn’t want you to think I was trying to engineer something.”

  His gaze swings to where I’m touching him. Damn, he feels good, but if I leave it there, I do look too eager.

  I drop my hand.

  His eyes return to my face. “Why would I think you were doing that? Are you that strategic? Or are you simply that determined?”

  I square my shoulders, taking the bait. “I am determined. Make no bones about that. But I don’t need to engineer anything. My guess is that my little sister is playing wingwoman. She was scanning the fair a few minutes ago, and I bet she knew you were going to be here.”
/>   “Ah, yes, of course. I did text your sister to give her a heads-up where I’d be.”

  I shoot him a look. “C’mon, man. Your bartender friend. Remember? I bet they were behind this. My sister was talking to her last night, and Emma has a little matchmaker in her.”

  Dean laughs, a sexy sound that turns me on then undoes me when he leans a little closer, lowering that deep voice. “Blaming your sister? Seems like a strange excuse when you could just admit you were dying for another opportunity to run into me.”

  “Pretty sure that’s obvious, but I’m happy to spell it out if you’d like.”

  He pats the back of his jeans, his grin going crooked. “Need a pen?”

  “Sure. Paper too? Or do you just want me to give you my hotel key card right now?”

  Dean laughs. “So, that’d be a yes for both strategic and determined.”

  “Got that right. Incidentally, yes is my favorite word.”

  “I’ve no doubt it is.”

  Already the picture of Dean is filling in. He’s the kind of guy where I have to read between the lines. And maybe he wants me to.

  Because how he says something reveals more than what he says at times. The timbre of his voice, the way he moves closer to me—they give me plenty to read. “Has anyone ever told you that you are an insane flirt for a man who’s already turned another man down?”

  Dean strokes his chin, looking to the sky as if deep in thought. “No, I don’t think anyone has told me that. Is that what you’re trying to say?”

  “What I’m saying is that you can’t seem to resist flirting with me.”

  Dean’s quiet for a moment, meeting my gaze. “If that’s the case, it’s only because you give me so many opportunities to do so.”

  “Well, trust me, I plan on giving you plenty more.”

  “Is that so?” We walk to the next stall, where he gives the cocktail mixes a once-over.

  “Yes, that is so. That’s what I told my sister a few minutes ago,” I admit, because I’m easy to read. I lay my cards on the table.

  Dean looks far too pleased with this new detail as he heads down the row, checking out other booths along the way. “And what exactly did you tell her?”

  I exaggerate shock. “Dean, are you fishing for compliments? Trying to get me to tell you every little detail that I told sweet Emma?”

  Of course, I could tell him that—or the things that I didn’t tell my sister. The things that I kept to myself. Like how I am dying to get my hands on him. To feel him. I bet he’d like hearing that more than he lets on.

  But now’s not the time.

  He glances at me out of the corner of his eye. “Hmm. Do I want a recap with every detail? That is a quandary.”

  I shake my head, amused at how he plays hard to get at times, then not at all at others. “Such a quandary indeed.”

  We come to a stop near a couple of booths featuring glasses. Dean’s not looking at me, because he’s checking out shot glasses.

  But I’m not letting him off the hook.

  I step closer, reaching past him to pick one up.

  Letting my arm brush his.

  I hear the slightest catch in his breath, then he looks at me, a little more serious for a second.

  I wait for him to go next.

  And he does. “I guess I do want to know some of the details. Tell me the good ones. Tell me the best ones.”

  My skin heats as I run my finger over the shot glass. “I told her I was going to return to your bar tonight. That I wanted to see you again. And that I was pretty damn sure you wanted to see me again too.”

  Dean’s lips twitch. “You think so?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your favorite word.”

  “Especially in this situation.”

  “And why do you think I want to see you again, Fitz?” His question doesn’t come out as a challenge. It’s an invitation. He wants me to tell him, to lay it out.

  “Because I felt the chemistry, and so did you. And you know it’ll be so good for both of us. Ergo, go out with me tonight once you’ve finished your shift.”

  There’s that grin again. “Go out with you, or go to your hotel? Which one is it?”

  “Both, Dean. Both.” I set the shot glass down and meet his gaze. “I don’t know how to make this more clear. When I see something I want, I do absolutely everything to get it.”

  We’re both quiet for a beat as he levels me with a stare that says he’s studying me, trying to figure me out.

  Or maybe trying to figure out what he wants from me.

  What he’ll let himself have.

  Finally, Dean asks, “And am I that something?”

  “You are that something, and you are that someone.”

  He gives a casual shrug. “You might not like me if you get to know me.”

  He walks toward another booth, and I match his strides.

  “Maybe you could let me be the judge of that.”

  Dean seems to consider this as he segues to another topic. “What’re you doing in England anyway? Are you and your sister on holiday for the summer?”

  There’s something more to the question. I’m not sure what exactly, but I have the sense that maybe he’s making sure I’m leaving. Just a hunch. Funny, that he knows so little about hockey he’d think I might stay. Or even stay for the rest of the summer.

  “Don’t worry. I have a J-O-B calling my name in the States. My team isn’t moving to London. I’m returning to New York in”—I stop, making a show of looking at my wrist even though I don’t wear a watch—“five days. Thursday, I’m outta here.”

  Dean’s eyes seem to spark when I mention the timing, or really, the expiration date. That is intel I file away because it tells me even more about him. “But I’m here now because Emma got into this incredible art program at the University of London. I thought I’d come over with her to get her set up and just have a good time.”

  “That’s kind of you,” he says, his tone genuine. “Looking out for her.”

  “Well, Emma’s awesome. She’s my baby sister. The others are a little older.”

  “How many sisters do you have?”

  “Three.”

  “What’s that like? Besides loud, I suspect.”

  “Are you an only child?”

  “Yes. Is it that obvious?”

  “Now it is. Only children are notorious for being extremely stubborn and often resort to playing hard to get . . . especially when they’re pursued by the second youngest in a family of four.”

  A laugh bursts from his chest. “Was there a study on that?”

  “Yes. By the American Journal of Why the Hell Won’t You Have Dinner with Me. But the study found the more persistent the second youngest is, the greater the chance of a yes.”

  “Fascinating study. Do show it to me some time,” Dean says, his grin widening.

  “I’ll be sure to look it up and send it to you.”

  We wander a little more, and he returns to the topic of family. “So, the second youngest of four. Sounds like you’re close with all of them?”

  “I am. I love all my knuckleheaded sisters madly, and I’ve managed to forgive them for the living hell known as trying to get to the shower in the mornings in a house full of double-X chromosomes. It’s been my mom, my sisters, and me since my dad died when I was ten.”

  Dean’s face softens. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  I wave it off, since it’s all I’ve ever known. “Couldn’t have asked to be raised by better women. They all took a very personal interest in making sure I didn’t turn into a total dick. I bet Emma’s personally offended that you don’t seem to be falling for my charms.”

  He looks away, then back at me, lowering his voice, and it feels personal, like what he’s saying is just for me. “I don’t think that’s completely true.”

  A smile spreads on my face, and my chest heats. “So you admit it—”

  I’m interrupted by shouting and loud music from the booth up ahead. A small chee
ring crowd surrounds the booth. Dean and I edge closer, and it doesn’t take long for me to figure out what’s happening.

  They’ve set up a small demonstration of softball, with a plastic bat and rubber ball. Different patrons are stepping up to try to hit a “home run”—hit the target in the back—for a free drink.

  A brunette sporting a baseball cap that reads “The Foul Ball” bounces up to Dean, holding out the plastic bat.

  She grins at him. “Looks like someone would be a natural! Fancy a hit?”

  He shakes his head. “I’ll pass, thanks.”

  “Not a fan of softball, either?”

  “Not really. And definitely not in bar form.”

  “Have you played? Softball’s a great fucking game.”

  Dean arches an eyebrow. “I thought hockey was the great sport.”

  “Believe it or not, lots of sports are great. Sure, hockey’s the best. But softball’s pretty awesome too.”

  I pause to examine his guns, making sure he sees where I’m looking. “And that lady might be right. With those fantastic arms, you might be a natural. And if you’re a natural, you might like the sport.”

  A smile seems to tug at his lips from the compliment, and then his eyes slide down to my arms, covered in ink. “Maybe I’d be a natural, but I don’t think it’s my cup of tea.”

  Behind us, someone nails the rubber ball into the target, sending up a wave of cheers.

  I take on the worst English accent I can muster. “Oh, do you just spend all day playing cricket?”

  His eyes return to me. “So, you’re going to mock my country for its sports choices?”

  “I believe you started the sports mockery last night, or do I need to remind you of both your sports snobbery and your sports mockery?”

  “You must. Because you just did.”

  “You kind of walked into it.”

  “And I stand by my case. There is no need for softball here in London. Why would we need it? We’ve never had it before; it’s not an English thing. It’s not our thing.”

  “But it might be your thing, because it’s here,” I say, grabbing a flyer from the table. “Look at that—a rooftop softball cage. Just imagine—if you went every day, you could become the British softball master.”