“Dean, I don’t think you’re getting it.” His tone brooks no argument. “I would do that with you. Because you’re you.” He hauls me in for another possessive kiss. “You”—he kisses me hard—“make”—sucks on my bottom lip—“me”—jerks my body against his—“feel”—levels me with his intense gaze—“so damn much.”
My heart thumps a little harder, a little faster.
And that pisses me off.
My reaction to him is highly inconvenient.
I know he’s just saying this because he can. He’s saying it because it’s easy. He’s leaving, and I’m his final fling. That’s all this is and all it’s going to be.
What do stupid hearts know?
I tell mine to settle the hell down, that it doesn’t matter that I feel the same way about him, that I can’t get him out of my head.
That doesn’t matter, since this—us—is just a game.
Just pillow talk and pretend.
This is fantasy. Nothing more.
And none of this conversation matters because he’s leaving, so I decide to give him a little bit of what he wants.
He wants the fantasy of him and me, and so do I. Time to spell it out for him as I slide a hand down his chest, my fingers traveling through the hair on his pecs, then to his stomach.
“We could do that, then. Every night, every morning. And I’d go to your games. I’d cheer you on when you scored or blocked or what have you.”
His smile lights up. “I stop goals. I crush the other team.”
“Yes, that. I’d cheer for you when you did the stopping goals thing you do.”
His mischievous blue eyes seem to delight in this scenario. “And before the games, I’d get on my knees for you, take you deep, and suck you off,” he says.
I smile. “Excellent. I get blow jobs before your games. Lucky me. Sign me up.”
Fitz arches a playful brow. “Dude. It’d go both ways. Hello. I blow you; you blow me.”
“Ah, the old tradesies game. Fine, I can live with that. Since you do give spectacular head.”
His grin is magnetic. “You do too. We’ll call it a good luck charm.”
I lift a finger. “I only have one issue with this scenario.”
“What’s that?”
I move my mouth to his ear, nipping his earlobe. “Don’t call me ‘dude.’ That is a horrid word.”
He cracks up, big and warm and so very him, and my heart does that annoying stutter again when he pins me, hands on my wrists, stares down at me, and says, “I like you so much that I won’t say ‘dude.’”
When he lowers his mouth to mine for another scorching kiss, it reminds me how utterly screwed I am.
Especially when he breaks the kiss and adds, “In fact, it’s more than like, Dean. You know that, right?” He levels me with a stare I can’t escape. “Tell me you know that.”
And I don’t know if we’re playing games still, if we’re giving each other the fantasy of us, or if we’re jumping into the deep end of the hard truth.
But I can’t lie. Not when he looks at me like that, like he’s laying it on the line.
I swallow and then nod. “I know that, Fitz. I absolutely know that.”
When we kiss again, it’s tinged once more with desperation. So much that I don’t care if he calls me dude. I just like him calling for me. Wanting me. Surrounding me.
I want as much as I can get.
“Now, about that matter we discussed earlier,” he says in a naughty tone.
Fitz seems intent on making good on his list of dirty deeds.
Especially when he has his wicked way with me a few minutes later, getting me to arch my hips, and bow my back, and say his name in strangled, hoarse breaths, because what he’s doing to me is wild and carnal and worth cleaning all the ice bins in the city.
The trouble is, it’s worth so much more.
Because I think I’m falling in love with him.
When the sun streams through the window the next morning, warming me, waking me up, I stretch, yawn, and smile.
We have one more day.
I reach for him, ready for the last twenty-four hours to start.
But he’s gone.
WEDNESDAY
Also known as the day it hurts, and the day it hurts so good.
27
Fitz
It’s five in the morning, and I can’t breathe.
I scrub a hand across my face, and I try to draw in air.
But my lungs can’t fill because my heart is slamming against my chest, and I have no fucking clue what is happening to me.
I sit up in bed as the dark of night streams through the open blinds.
Dean’s sound asleep on his stomach next to me, his back on display.
And I still can’t breathe.
Being near him is too much right now.
It’s too hard.
I can’t think straight with him this close.
I have plans. So many plans for my family. For my team.
For myself.
And I can’t sleep.
I never have trouble sleeping.
I sleep like the dead. Like the guilty. Like a cat.
But I’ve been waking up every twenty minutes. I can’t think straight, and all I can do is feel.
I clench my teeth and drag a hand through my hair, willing this to stop.
This incessant beating in my chest.
This too-fast, too-hard pounding.
And the ringing in my ears. Loud and unavoidable, with no way to turn the volume down.
But the noise and the thumping aren’t going away.
I look at the window, jaw clenched, trying to figure out what to do. Then I glance at Dean.
Sleeping so damn peacefully.
I lift a hand, wanting to slide it down his back, along his arm.
That’s the problem. All I want is to touch him, be with him.
And I can’t deal with this intensity. It’s strangling me. It’s cruelly stealing my blood and my breath.
This isn’t what I wanted.
This isn’t why I came to England.
I didn’t come here to feel.
I came here for Emma.
And maybe, just maybe, to fuck.
And now I am fucked.
Because I fell.
And I can’t handle it.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed, find my boxer briefs, and tug them on. If he wakes, I’ll tell him I’m going for a run.
But he’s quiet, still sound asleep as I pull on my jeans, my shirt, my socks. I stuff my phone in my pocket.
I push my fingers against the corners of my eyes, pinching the bridge of my nose, trying to decide.
Should I stay, or should I go?
But my feet choose. They take me to the door, where I grab my shoes.
I’ll text him later.
Tell him I’m working out.
That’s plausible. That feels reasonable.
Even though, as I open the door quietly and let it fall shut behind me before I put on my shoes, I know what I’m doing is something else entirely.
I’m running.
28
Dean
At first, it seems like a miscommunication.
I wake up. The other side of the bed is empty. So is the living room, the kitchen, the bathroom.
Fitz is gone, and so are his clothes.
His shoes aren’t by the door.
His phone isn’t on the nightstand.
Fine, fine. He could have gone for a run or maybe had somewhere to be. He didn’t want to wake me, but he’ll have texted with an explanation. If I grab my phone, I’ll find a message saying he had a meeting, a workout, a breakfast with his sister.
So that’s what I do. I pick up my phone and ignore the sense of impending doom hanging over me.
I slide open the screen, wanting a note, needing one. When I click on my text app, the sinking feeling returns like a leaden weight in my gut.
There are no new messages.
He left.
He fucking ran.
I drag my hand across my jaw, heaving a sigh.
I want to believe this is a misunderstanding. That there’s an easy explanation. That his absence makes perfect sense.
So I click on the app again, opening the last text he sent me—before I arrived at his hotel on Monday night. I told him I was on my way, and he’d replied with Can’t wait.
No texts after that because we spent the next thirty-six hours together.
Thirty-six hours, during which I fell in love with the fucking jackass.
Now what?
I could start a conversation.
I could say, Hey, where are you?
Or Everything okay?
Or Where did you go?
But the thing is, if he wanted me to know, he’d have told me.
Gritting my teeth, I stare at the screen again.
Give it time. Maybe he just left. Maybe he ran to the store to surprise me with tea.
That sounds grand.
I set the phone down, head to the bathroom, brush my teeth, shave, and take a shower.
Surely he’ll have returned when I get out.
He’ll definitely have texted.
But my phone is still empty.
“You fucking prick,” I mutter.
A small part of me thinks I should reach out, make sure he’s okay, but I know he’s okay. Nothing happened to him in the middle of the night in my flat. Nothing happened to him this morning.
The only thing that happened is he left.
And I’m not going to fucking chase him.
No way.
I get dressed, pulling on a T-shirt and jeans, then I stare at the bed.
It’s a mess, tangled sheets, scrunched-up pillows.
All the evidence of us.
How we were.
I sneer at it.
I hate it.
I grab the sheets, toss them in the laundry bin, get out fresh ones, and make the bed.
I strip the pillowcases, throw them in the bin too, then put on new ones.
I toss on the cover, straighten the corners.
It’s like he was never here.
I smooth a hand over the bed. “There.” I draw a deep breath. It’s shakier than I would like.
Then I head through the kitchen and leave.
The door groans shut behind me.
I don’t want to be here.
I don’t want to be in my own damn home because it’s the last place I saw Fitz, and now it reminds me of him.
I bound down the stairs like I’m going to run a race, and when I reach the landing, I clench my teeth, let out a muttered “Fuck,” and yank open the front door.
The worst part?
My stupid fucking heart is hoping he’ll be on the other side.
Waiting for me. Walking down the street. Carrying breakfast. Smiling. He’ll give me a kiss, head inside, and tell me he just stepped out for a bit.
But I scan the street for signs of him, and there are none.
“God damn you,” I grumble. “God damn you, James.”
I turn and walk, unsure where I’m even headed.
All I know is I want to get away.
Maybe that’s how he felt too.
Except it feels a whole lot worse to be the one left, rather than the one leaving.
29
Fitz
Answer.
C’mon, just answer.
I ring the buzzer on Emma’s door one more time.
A tinny sound rattles through the box. “Hello?”
“I called you three times. Can I please come in?”
“Oh, lovely to see you too.”
I huff. “Well, you didn’t answer, so I came over.”
“James, it’s eight in the morning.”
“You’re an early bird.” I glance down Emma’s street as a black cab rushes by. “You gonna let me up?”
“Yes. Of course.” She presses the buzzer and lets me in. I hoof it up the steps two at a time till I reach the fourth floor. I rap on her door, and she opens it, still clad in her pj’s.
“Can you get ready quickly? I’m hungry.”
She blinks. “Are we having breakfast today? I thought you were with Dean.”
His name is like a punch in the gut. But I absorb it like it’s a hit on the ice, and I keep skating, focusing on my motherfucking job—not feeling. “Nah.”
She shoots me a quizzical look. “You’re not having breakfast with Dean? You’re not spending the day with Dean? The guy you really like who you went on a riverboat cruise with? The guy who took two days off to spend with you?”
Stab me in the heart, why don’t you?
“I wanted to see you before I leave tomorrow. I’m starving. Can we go?” I point to the clock on the wall behind her.
She rubs her eyes, then shakes her head. “I’m getting dressed. Only because I can tell you royally messed something up if you’re trying to convince me we had a breakfast planned, when I know you really want to be with the guy you’re falling for.”
I bristle at her words, then try to shrug them off. “Time’s a-ticking for scones, Ems.”
A little later, we grab a table at a café near her flat, and I open the menu. I scan the items, reading each one carefully, letting eggs and toast and sausages and tea and Emma totally take my mind off the man I can’t let myself think about. His eyes, his sarcasm, his laugh . . .
Shake it off.
I study the menu harder, like I can memorize it.
There. Eggs.
Perfect. I look up.
Emma parts her lips, about to say something, when the server swings by. We place our orders, then I fire off questions at Emma.
“So, you ready for your program to start? How’s the flat? Do you need anything? Want to swing by the store?” I snap my fingers. “Hey, should we go to the Tower of London today?”
She holds up her hand as a stop sign. “James.”
“Fine. We can go to the National Gallery.” I flash my best supportive-brother smile. “How about the Tate too?”
Adamant, she shakes her head. “How about we start this impromptu bonding session with you telling me why you are hiding from the fact that you’re falling in love?”
My heart lurches.
It kicks and screams.
It flings itself to the ground in an epic temper tantrum.
Then, it stops, goes quiet, as emotion clogs my throat. I swallow it down, drag a hand through my hair, then cover my face. “I’m so fucked, Ems. I’m so fucked.”
She moves next to me, sets her hand on my back, and rests her cheek on my shoulder. “Why are you running? That’s what you’re doing, James. You know that, right? You don’t need me. You need to figure out what’s going on in here.” She taps my heart.
I look up, feeling nothing but misery and not trying to hide it from her. “Because he lives here, and I live there, and that’s not going to change. I have a job in the NHL. I can’t and I won’t give it up. And he has a life here, a family here, a business, friends, a loan. Everything. This is his home.” I gesture wildly to whatever direction Dean lives in. “We don’t work. We can’t work. It’s not possible.”
She nods, smiling sadly. “Can’t you try long-distance?”
I shake my head. “No. I can’t. I barely get time off during the season. We play three games a week. We travel constantly. He works weekends. Hell, he works six days a week. This was a huge exception for him to take off two days to be with me.”
She scoffs. “Why are you with me, then?”
I grab her arm, desperation wracking my body. “Because I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to be with him and not tell him I’m absolutely fucking crazy about him.”
She hauls me in for another hug and ruffles my hair. “You’re such an idiot. He’s so obviously crazy about you too.”
My heart slams against my chest. “Yeah?”
“Yes, and you’re stupid if you can’t see it.”
For a few seconds, a sliver of happiness sneaks under my skin. I didn’t think I was alone on this slippery slope. I had a strong feeling he’d been sliding along with me.
But even if he feels the same way I feel, that doesn’t change the almost four thousand miles between us.
“I don’t want a long-distance thing. I want to see him and touch him and be with him. That’s how messed up this is.”
She takes a beat. “I don’t know how you solve it either. But I know how you don’t.”
“What’s that?”
“By being here with me. You should be with him. Talk to him. Tell him what you told me.”
“I don’t want to scare him away.”
“You already ran, James. Go see your man.”
My stomach rumbles. “I’m kind of hungry though.”
She rolls her eyes. “You don’t deserve breakfast. Go fix this. Now. You have one more day with Dean.”
I stand, open my wallet, hand her some bills, then drop a big kiss on her forehead. “I love you.”
“I know. And I love you slightly more than I did before because now I have breakfast for my lunch.”
The second I leave the café, I call Dean.
But he doesn’t answer.
30
Dean
“It’s mad if you think about all the people that company hoodwinked.” I pause my rant to take a bite of my breakfast.
“Yes, just mad,” Anya says, with a curious lift of her brows.
“I mean, who thinks that’s okay? It’s not. It’s not okay,” I add, then finish my eggs and take a drink of tea.
“It’s absolutely not,” Naveen puts in, but then he clears his throat and looks at his wife. “So, Dean. Did you want to have breakfast with us to rant about some Silicon Valley company that tricked all its investors?”
I frown, confused. “You liked the book too. Right? I mean, it was captivating. It was a brilliant exposé.”
Anya laughs lightly. “We talked about it two weeks ago.”
“Right.” I scrub a hand across the back of my neck, then shake my head. “I guess that proves my point. It stuck with me.”
A Guy Walks Into My Bar Page 19