“I love you, Ems,” I say, wrapping her in a bear hug.
“I love you, James.”
I haul her in tighter, then let her go. She immediately gives Dean a huge hug too, and it’s insanely endearing to see them embrace as if they’ve done this many times before.
When she lets go, she waves goodbye. “Enjoy your riverboat cruise,” she says, then, like the smart-ass she is, she adds, “lovebirds.”
“We are so not lovebirds,” I say when she’s gone.
“So not at all,” he says. To prove it, I don’t hold his hand as we walk onto the boat. Instead, I drape my arm around his shoulders.
Well, that does give me more real estate of Dean to get close to.
Dean leans against the railing, gazing out at the water as the boat glides along the Thames. “So, on a scale of one to ten, how touristy, cheesy, or eye-rolling is a riverboat cruise to a Londoner such as yourself?” I ask.
He strokes his chin as if deep in thought. “Let’s see. Let me think back on all the riverboat cruises I’ve done.” He casts me a side-eye stare. “One.”
“You’ve done one cruise?”
He laughs lightly, holding up his thumb and forefinger in a circle. “I’ve done zero. I was rating it a one on the touristy cheesy scale you mentioned. Not cheesy at all.”
“Whoa.” I stumble back dramatically like I’m shocked, then I move closer again. “For real? You’ve never done a riverboat cruise here?”
“Never have I ever.”
“Is that because it’s touristy and cheesy?”
“Have you been to the top of the Empire State Building?”
I shake my head.
“Statue of Liberty?”
I shake my head again, then raise a finger. “But I have been to the Museum of Natural History countless times. Because . . . dinosaurs.”
“Well, sure. Dinosaurs are cool. And I would probably go there too. But see, if I visited New York, I’d see those other places as well. Empire State Building and all. It’s just what you do when you visit.”
“I’d take you there.” I bump his shoulder, savoring the notion of showing Dean around New York, taking him to wherever he wanted to go and to my favorite places too.
“Yes, I’d expect you to return the tour-guide favor,” he says, and I’m tempted to float the trial balloon, to see if he’d ever come see me, maybe spend a weekend together in my city.
But that would be true insanity.
No way am I going to try to have a long-distance relationship with this guy. Hell, a relationship isn’t in the cards for me at all, for all the reasons I laid out last night.
Plus, there’s the pact, the damn pact that kicks in soon. I won’t be the one to break it. I made it with my guys, and I’ll keep it.
I swipe away the dangerous thoughts. “So, are you enjoying the cruise?” I ask as the tour operator warbles into the mic about the landmarks we pass, historical structures alongside modern skyscrapers.
Dean meets my gaze. “Yes. I feel like I’m seeing London in a new light. It’s a great view.”
And my stomach fucking flips. Because he’s not looking at the city. He’s looking at me.
The way he stares feels different than before.
Deeper.
More important.
There’s more connection, more closeness, and it’s doing a number on my head.
Thank fuck for the pact. Thank fuck for training camp. If I didn’t have those natural stops, I’d be falling so damn hard on my ass.
But I do have those, and they’ll cushion the blow. Make it easier to get on that plane on Thursday.
But until then, there’s this.
This raw, sexual energy vibrating between the sexy-as-sin Brit and me.
“Yeah, it’s a fantastic view,” I say, my eyes on him.
For a few seconds, we stare at each other like we’re going to pounce, like he wants to tear off my clothes and get his mouth all over me. It’s a great look.
But we’re surrounded by people and water and landmarks, and everything is getting in the way of what I want—alone time with this man.
Dean breaks our gaze and slides his arm around my waist. “Now, before we maul each other on this boat, tell me something innocuous. Why did you want to take this cruise?”
I laugh. “I’ve always liked boats. My dad worked in shipping. Maybe it’s in my blood.”
“I bet it is. A connection to him.”
“Yeah. I think so.” I take a beat. “My turn. Why do you like London so much?”
He gives a shrug and a smile. “It’s home. It feels right. Like where I belong. Is New York that way for you?”
“I think I’ll always be a California guy, but New York suits me now. I love the energy, the pace, the people. It’s loud and dirty and awesome, and you can find anything and do anything.” I survey the city unfolding before me, the view of Big Ben, the iconic city skyline. “It’s a lot like London, I suppose. And I like it here. A helluva lot.”
“It’s the good-sex effect.”
I shake my head. “Get it right, man. It’s the great-sex effect.”
“Excuse me. It’s the hashtag Best-Sex-Ever effect.”
“Yes. Thank you for the clarification.” I pat the railing of the boat. “Looks like we both popped our Thames riverboat cruise cherries,” I say, letting my tongue loll out like a dog’s.
“We’re no longer riverboat virgins.”
Which raises an interesting topic. “Speaking of, when did you . . .?”
Dean shoots me a wry grin. “I was eighteen. Just finishing school. You?”
“Same. Summer before college.”
“Was it good for you?”
“Eh.” I shrug. “It was necessary.”
“That’s a fair way of putting it.”
“I know where I’d like to put it right now,” I whisper.
He shoots me an oh no, you didn’t stare. “You picked an hour-long cruise. You’re not shagging me on a boat.”
I slide a hand up his back. “I know. I just want to. Remember?” With my other hand, I tap my chest. “Insatiable.”
“Yes. I know. And yes, I like it. Now, enjoy the cruise, because before you know it, we’ll be getting off.” Dean’s lips curve up in a grin as he takes a deliberate beat, then adds, “And then getting off.”
An hour later, we dock, grab a cab, and head back to my hotel, where we get naked so quickly, we set a record.
Then he’s bent over the bed, I’m inside him, and I’m so fucking happy and so damn horny that I decide it’s official—I’m living my best life ever.
When we’re done and recovering from the #BestSexEver effect, Dean’s phone rings.
Lazily, he reaches for it, then when he sees who’s calling, he sits up quickly.
“Shit, I almost forgot.” He answers with “Hi, Dad.”
I listen as he laughs with his father, drops his face into his hand, and then covers his phone and looks at me. “We’re having takeaway at my flat. He wants you to join us for dinner.”
“Hell, yeah,” I say, and after a shower, I leave the hotel with my lover to meet his father.
It’s completely surreal and completely real at the same damn time.
25
Fitz
Not gonna lie.
I feel like I just gained entry to a secret land.
A special place.
And it is awesome. When Dean unlocks the green door to his flat, I want to pump a fist because I get to see inside.
Instead, I turn around, drink in the view of the quiet side street where he lives, then follow him into the foyer.
“It’s just like Notting Hill,” I remark.
“Except it’s in Bankside. And I don’t live with a crazy man who wears goggles and eats expired apricots.”
I poke his side. “Dean. Are you a closet rom-com fan?”
He swivels around, stopping on the steps, arching a brow. “Closeted? Oh no, not at all. I’m totally out on that front and all fro
nts.”
I laugh. “Yeah, Notting Hill is just a good flick.”
“That it is.”
I follow him up the stairs to the third floor, and he unlocks the door to his place. It opens with a faint groan, and I catalog that sound.
It’s like the opening theme song to a movie, and as the credits roll, I step into the world of the man I want to spend all my time with.
“It’s small, but it’s home,” he says, almost like he’s apologizing for it.
And it is tiny.
A kitchen with a sliver of space that opens right into a living room with exposed brick walls.
My eyes are wide, and I take it all in, like I can learn even more about him from the place he lives. It’s neat, tidy. His couch is dark gray, and there are books on the coffee table—nonfiction, from the looks of it, current titles on scandals and business. His walls are minimalist but decorated with prints of artwork—one looks like a Rothko, and another a Vermeer—and I smile privately, knowing where this comes from. His mom. Even if he’s not close to her, she left a mark on him, on something he loves.
As I turn around, Dean’s looking at me a little expectantly. Like he’s waiting for me to render a verdict on his home.
“I love it,” I say, then my gaze catches on some bookshelves. Framed photos line the top shelf. I walk over and pick one up. “That’s you and Naveen and Anya,” I say, studying the picture of them all at some sort of street fair. A candid picture of Dean with his friends, laughing and carefree.
“Yes.”
“When’s it from?”
“Two years ago, I think.”
I set it down, this piece of Dean’s history.
Then I find a picture of Dean and Sam crossing a finish line in a race. Looks like a 10K, and the date is a year ago. Their arms are raised. From the race banner, I see it’s a fundraiser for a local children’s hospital, and that tugs on my heart even more, another piece of his past. I’m looking through a window into his life, and I want to know it all, see it all.
The next shot is Dean lining up a pool cue and aiming it across the table. The guy he’s playing with has dark skin, much darker than Dean’s. I kind of love that he has friends from so many places and so many walks of life. “Who’s that?”
Dean moves next to me. “Taron.”
“Ah, the one who’s not your type.”
“Exactly. He’s a good mate though. Outgoing, vibrant. I wish you’d met him the other night.”
“I wish I had too.”
My eyes drift down the row of photos, ravenous to see more of his life, to gobble up all this insight into who he is, what makes him tick, and his world. Pictures of him and Maeve at the bar, then a posed shot of them outside The Magpie, arms wrapped around each other, smiling, and an open for business sign behind them.
“Last year?”
“Yup.”
I pick up more pictures of him and Maeve, including one of her lifting a pillow to swat him. He’s holding up his hands as if to defend himself. They’re in a tiny room, and he looks younger.
My heart thunders. “That’s you in college, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t room with Maeve, did you?”
He laughs, shaking his head. “No. But we spent a ton of time together.”
“You guys are really close,” I say, stating the obvious as I stare at the picture of Dean and his best friend like I can’t get enough of it.
“We are,” he says, then moves in behind me, wraps his arms around my waist, and brushes a soft kiss to my neck.
I set down the picture, close my eyes, and let myself enjoy the sensation of being in his embrace, feeling his lips, his touch, his strength.
I grab his hands clasped around my stomach, and clutch them so he won’t let go of me.
But it’s not just him I’m holding on to.
It’s the last shred of my resistance.
It’s so threadbare right now.
I don’t know if I can hold out much longer.
We stay like that for a minute or two, quiet as his lips travel across the back of my neck, and I try—I try so damn hard—not to say everything I’m feeling for him.
Stay in the moment, I tell myself.
So I do, just savoring Dean’s tender kisses on my neck, his arms wrapped around me, and the way he seems to know what I need right now.
Him.
Just him.
This moment is as close to perfect as any moment has ever been. I don’t want it to end. I don’t want anything to end.
But all of it has to.
Every moment, every second will be over in less than two days.
Soon enough, he lets go. “My dad will be here any minute with the food. And as cool as he is, I don’t want him to see me like this—looking like I’m about to take you to my bed.”
I manage a laugh, turn around, and drag my fingers through my hair, a makeshift comb. With a deep breath, I center myself. “Agreed.” Then I furrow my brow, focusing on the practical. “Want me to grab some wine or something? I can run to the store. Pick up a bottle.”
Dean waves a hand, dismissing the offer. “The one thing I have plenty of is liquor. You can help me find a bottle if you’d like. He enjoys red wine.”
I join him in the kitchen, rubbing my palms together. “Let’s find some red wine for Dean’s dad.”
The hunt briefly takes my mind off this train rattling down the tracks.
A train that’s gathering speed, and I don’t think I can stop it.
But I also don’t think I want to stop it. There’s a part of me that wants to be walloped by it. To feel it. To feel everything for him that’s coming my way.
Dean’s father deals the final cards. Empty takeaway boxes and the remnants of dinner—he brought a curry from Naveen’s restaurant, and it was amazing—are strewn on the kitchen counter, but my attention is on this game of poker.
I pick up my cards, considering my hand.
My sucky, shitty hand.
Maybe I can bluff though. Yeah, I do that on the ice. I can do it here. I want to impress Dean’s dad.
I slide another chip across the table, staying in.
His father arches a brow, then pushes in two more chips to join mine. “You’re bluffing.”
I blink, and try to keep my tone neutral. “Not bluffing.”
Dean reins in a laugh, covering his mouth.
“You think I’m bluffing?” I toss out to my guy.
Dean just shrugs and smiles.
“I guess we’ll find out,” I say, with more bravado than my cards call for.
His father shoots me a skeptical stare. “All right. What have you got, Yankee?”
Smiling, I lay down my cards, loving that his dad calls me Yankee. Nicknames are a good thing in my book.
His father cracks up, leaning back on the couch, clapping a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “Your friend can’t bluff for shit.”
“No, Dad. It’s that you can always tell when someone is bluffing.”
His father nods solemnly. “That is true. Very true.”
“Fine, fine. Maybe I suck at poker,” I admit.
“No, you just need a better poker face,” his dad tells me, as he squeezes Dean’s shoulder. “This one? He has a great poker face. I taught him well.”
“Those are important life lessons, sir,” I say.
They both laugh.
“What’s so funny?”
“You don’t have to call him ‘sir,’” Dean says.
“Just use my name,” his dad says. “Martin.”
“Okay, Martin,” I say, but it’s still weird. Maybe it’s only because this is the first parent of a lover I’ve met.
Ever.
“Or just call me ‘old man,’ like Dean does.”
“I call it like I see it, old man,” Dean says.
“Yes, I suppose you do. And I’ve been meaning to ask, would you like me to tell your friend embarrassing stories about you from your younger days?”
Dean shakes his head, staring daggers at his dad. “Reveal nothing, or I will march into Coffee O’clock tomorrow and tell Penny you’ve been pining away for her.”
Martin laughs loudly. “Dean, she already knows. We went out last night.”
“You scoundrel.”
He wiggles his brow and looks at his watch. “And on that note, I should get out of here. We’re going out again.”
“Double scoundrel.”
“Takes one to know one,” his father says, then rises and heads for the door.
“I want a full report tomorrow,” Dean says.
“Maybe I’ll tell you. Maybe I won’t.”
“Tease,” Dean says.
I follow them, clearing my throat. “It was great to meet you, Mr. Collins.”
Another laugh bursts from him. “You’re good with the formalities. I wasn’t expecting that.”
“Well, my mom and three sisters made it clear that manners matter.”
“They taught you well.” His father claps me on the shoulder. “Pleasure to meet you, James. Maybe we’ll see more of you.”
I wish, I want to say.
But instead, I say thank you.
When he leaves, Dean turns around and gives me a smile full of gratitude. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For being great with my dad.”
“It was easy.” That’s true of nearly everything with Dean.
Except for being with him the way I want to. Which is starting to feel like . . . every day. That’s how I want to be with him, and that makes things the opposite of easy.
The thought scares the shit out of me.
And kind of doesn’t at the same damn time.
As the door creaks shut, Dean’s gaze drifts to a book his dad left behind. He grabs it and tells me he’ll be right back.
“I’ll be here.” As his footsteps sound on the steps, I say those words again to Dean’s flat around me. I’ll be here.
Wishing there were a way, but knowing there’s not.
I’m going to just enjoy every last minute with him. That is all I can do.
26
Dean
A Guy Walks Into My Bar Page 17