But when Sam Smith comes on the sound system, I don’t know that I can pay attention to anything with “Dancing with a Stranger” burning a hole in my mind. It’s on my goddamn playlist for Dean, the one I made when he came over to my hotel that first night.
And I can remember—my God, I can see it so damn clearly—the way I crushed his lips, the way he said Make it last, the way we did.
We made everything last.
And hell, there has to be a way to make us last.
I drag a hand through my hair, trying to slam the door closed on all these images of him. But I can’t. I just can’t, and I don’t want to.
“You like this song?” I ask Haven, my voice a little hoarse.
She tilts her head. “Yeah. I do. What about you?”
“It’s great. I love it.” I let out a deep sigh, and then hold my hands out wide, admitting defeat before I even start. “Haven, I have no idea what you’ve been talking about.”
“You don’t?”
I shake my head. “No clue. This song, this place, everything here. It’s all making me think of . . .”
She nods sagely and reaches out her hand, squeezing mine. “I’ve noticed you’ve been a little distant. And ‘distant’ is not a word I’d ever use to describe James Fitzgerald. What’s going on? Do you need to talk?”
The song floats through the restaurant, the chorus about not wanting to be alone tonight, and I swear it’s mocking me. It’s taunting me. And it’s tempting me too.
Then, in a flash of brilliance, I have an idea that snaps all my attention back to her.
“Would you be able to help me with something?”
“Anything.”
I tell her what I need, and she nods approvingly. “All in a day’s work as an agent.”
She grabs her phone, we hatch a plan, then place a rush order. It’ll be in London Saturday afternoon.
41
Dean
The Greek place is great and wholly necessary.
Spending time with my friends roots me in London when parts of me—namely my heart—are elsewhere.
I don’t tell them as much, but I’m pretty sure they sense it.
After that dinner, Naveen declares he’s making a reservation for a sushi restaurant the next weekend. I spend the week counting down because it gives me something to do. It gives me a goal.
Time with them distracts me from thinking of Fitz. It’s the only thing that keeps my mind off him.
When Saturday rolls around, sixteen days after Fitz departed, we all go to lunch. We laugh and talk, and the entire time I keep thinking what a lucky fucker I am to have such great friends.
I have to keep on living. Keep on enjoying my life as best I can.
After we finish, Taron taps my shoulder, his eyes wide and curious. “So, whatever happened with that guy?”
Before I can answer, he shouts, “Ouch,” his face twisting in pain, like someone just stepped on his shoe.
Laughing, I glance at Maeve across the table. “Did you just ram your heel on Taron’s foot?”
“You evil, evil woman,” Taron hisses at her. “That smarts.”
Maeve slices an imaginary knife across her throat, staring sharply at Taron. “We’re not bringing him up.”
I lean back in the chair, cross my arms, and regard her with a smirk. “So, this,” I say, gesturing in a circle to the whole table, “is part of some plan you cooked up to induce amnesia in me?”
“No. We’re just trying to keep you happy,” she says, squaring her shoulders.
“A plan. Like I suspected,” I say, having caught her in the act.
“He’s onto us, guys,” Sam chimes in, then stares at me with inquisitive eyes. “But the more important thing is—is it working?”
“Fabulously,” I say, deadpan. “Also, thanks for making me your charity case. Appreciate it.”
“Oh, stop,” Maeve says. “We love you, and we want you to be happy here.”
“I am happy here. I promise. And I’ll stay happy as long as people aren’t constantly asking about him.”
“Speaking of never bringing up the NHL all-star,” Sam says, “he’s killing it in preseason.”
“Is that so?” I pick up my drink like it’s the most fascinating concoction in the world.
“His stats are great. His gameplay is top-notch,” my American friend adds, then rattles off stats I already know by heart. Points, goals, assists.
“Why are you smiling like you have a secret?” Maeve asks me with narrowed eyes.
“No reason,” I say, trying to rein in a grin.
“You are a certified fanboy,” Sam says, wagging a finger at me. Then he leans toward Maeve, a little closer than I’ve seen him get to her before. “I think your best friend just developed an interest in hockey.”
And she inches closer to him too. “I think he did.”
Taron’s jaw drops as he gawks. “You, of all people, know hockey now?”
“A little.”
Sam points at me. “Do you know how many assists Fitzgerald had last night?”
I hold up a finger. A little sheepishly, but a little proudly too. I am proud of my man.
“Fitzgerald is very good,” Sam adds, then looks at Maeve. “And it seems Collins is still quite taken with his American man.”
Maeve sets her chin in her hands and bats her lashes at me. “Yes, it seems you are, Dean.”
I shrug, what can you do–style. “Well, it’s not like the common cold. It wasn’t going to go away after a week.” Or at all, I add silently.
Sam shakes his head. “No. It’s not going to go away when you research him, Dean. But maybe it shouldn’t.”
“I for one think you should get on a plane tonight,” Taron offers.
I shake my head. “That won’t happen.” But the idea is insanely tempting.
“He might be your portobello mushroom sandwich,” Anya says.
Maeve stabs the table. “Dean, why don’t you call him?”
“You know why,” I tell her. She’s privy to the details of what Fitz and I decided the morning he left.
Anya rolls her eyes. “Enough of this nonsense. Just send the gorgeous man a text. The night we met him, he looked at you like he was already falling in love with you,” she says, and I have to hide a grin.
Maeve nods savagely. “Text him. I bet it’ll make him incandescently happy.”
When she puts it like that, there’s no question. I do know a simple note from me would make him happy. I’m as sure of that as I am that the sun will rise tomorrow. I know Fitz. I know that man so well. It’s heady to possess the power to make another person happy.
It’s a gift, truly.
One that should be used with care.
But I’m not only doing this for him.
I’m doing it for me.
Making him happy makes me happy.
“Fine.” I hold up my hands in surrender, and maybe I really am. But maybe that’s what I need to be doing—surrendering to the grip the past has had on me, to the fear that I’ll make the same mistakes.
Then letting go of everything past.
I take out my phone, open the last text thread, reading his words yet another time, then tap out a message.
Dean: Nice assist in the game yesterday.
In seconds, my phone buzzes.
Fitz: You watched my game? You have no idea how happy that makes me. Also, where are you? There’s a delivery guy at your bar.
42
Dean
Maeve’s grin may never disappear.
“This is the best jukebox ever,” she says, resting her cheek against the brand-new jukebox in The Magpie a half-hour later, stroking it, petting it. “And this makes our bar the best bar ever.”
I stand back, surveying the scene, still amazed at what Fitz pulled off. He actually found the jukebox she wanted—the one I showed him at Coffee O’clock—ordered it, and sent it here via rush delivery. I was going to buy it for Maeve, but he beat me to it, doing something in
credible for my friend.
“Why are you not on a plane right now to go see him?” Sam asks, flapping a hand in the direction of Heathrow.
“He’s on the road tomorrow,” I explain, still dazed from the enormity of this gesture. “You should know his schedule, since you’re the hockey fanatic.”
“Yeah, whatever. You’re the hockey fanatic now. And more importantly, what are you going to do after that, Dean?”
“Yes, Dean. How about after that?” Maeve seconds.
“Guys, I need to sort things out,” I add, but I’m grinning, and I can’t stop, not at all and not when Maeve hits the first tune on the jukebox. Music fills the bar, and everything feels okay in the world again.
At least for now.
But most of all, I can’t stop grinning because I know what I need to do now, and it’s not hang out with my mates.
I step outside and call Fitz. He answers in less than a second.
“Hey you,” he says.
The sound of his voice is like melting chocolate. “Hi. The jukebox is amazing. That’s an incredible gift.”
“I miss you,” he says, cutting to the chase.
My stomach flips, and briefly, I lean against the brick wall of the bar so I don’t stumble off the earth, pushed by this rush of emotions. “I miss you too.”
“I miss you so damn much. And then when you sent that text just now, do you know how it made me feel?”
I step away from the bar, heading down the street, smiling. “How did it make you feel?”
“Like I knew how to be happy again.” He sounds relieved, but his tone holds a tinge of sadness.
I wince, walking along the street. “I know the feeling,” I say, an answering sadness in my voice. I don’t want that to color our time talking, so I strip it away and laser in on something good. “So, you’re playing great.”
“I am.”
“The pact is working.”
“Maybe, or maybe we’re just a good team. And hello, when did you become a hockey fan?”
“I’ve taken an interest in it lately.”
“You researching hockey is hella hot, babe.”
I turn the corner. “You know what else is hella hot?”
Fitz moans, all raspy and sexy. “Tell me.”
“You, me, video chat. Are you home?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll be back to my flat in fifteen.”
“Good, but let’s keep talking now,” Fitz says.
“Obviously. I’m not letting you go,” I say.
“When you say that . . .”
“When I say what?” I tease. It’s so easy to flirt with him, it’s like we never hit pause.
His voice is rough and needy. “Do you know what it does to me when you say that?”
“Why don’t you tell me?”
His answer comes in a long, appreciative rumble. “Everything. It does everything to me. Turns me on, makes me happy, all at once. But I think that’s how I’d describe you.”
I laugh lightly. “I turn you on and I make you happy?”
“Yes. You do. Now call me on video. I want to see your face as you walk home.”
I give him what he wants. I want it too. I switch to a video call, and there Fitz is, looking so unbelievably handsome in—
“Are you wearing a fucking suit?”
Fitz wiggles his brows. “I am. Heading to a preseason game.”
I shake my head in appreciation. “You look incredible,” I say, drinking in how handsome he is in a tailored dark-blue suit, clearly custom-fitted, as well as a crisp shirt and light-green tie. “Mmm. That tie. If I were there, I would put it on you.”
His lips curve up. “You would?”
“Drape it around your neck, line it up, loop the tail over . . .” I’m getting ridiculously aroused as I walk home, telling Fitz how I want to knot his tie. If I were to put on his tie, my hands would be on him. “Thread the fabric through, tighten the knot, and adjust it against your neck.”
He breathes out hard, his chest rising and falling, his fingers tugging at his collar. “Look what you’re doing to me. You’re turning me on telling me how you’re going to accessorize me.”
“You’re not the only one turned on.” My whole body is buzzing. “I think all of South Bank must know I have a hard-on.”
“Thanks for mentioning your dick. Now I’m rock hard too.”
“You were pretty hard already, I bet.”
“I was,” Fitz says as he unknots the neckwear.
I blink, processing what he’s doing. “Are you going to get undressed right now? While I’m on the street?”
“I am. I’m too worked up not to.”
I glance around. “I’m almost home. Just wait. I can’t have everyone seeing you.”
“Better walk fast, babe.”
“You dickhead,” I say, but I’m smiling as I pick up the pace while he tosses the tie to the floor. Soon I’m at my building, up the stairs, in my flat, and slamming the door shut just as he parks himself on his couch, unzipping his trousers and taking out his cock.
I don’t even make it to the couch. I’m standing against the door, one hand on the phone, the other unzipping my jeans. In seconds, I’m stroking my dick and watching Fitz take his length in his hand, and it all feels so damn right.
Like this is where I’m supposed to be.
Reconnecting with him.
“Look at you,” he growls as he watches me jerking myself. “God, I missed that. I miss you. Want to have my hands on you right now, my mouth everywhere.”
I’m already breathing hard, close to the edge, pleasure blasting through my veins as I watch him shuttling his fist up and down his cock, sitting like a king on his couch in that suit, looking so powerful. “I want to get on my knees right now. Take you in my mouth,” I tell him, my voice hoarse with desire.
“Yes, that. Fuck, I want that.” His eyes squeeze shut, and he groans his release. The sight of him coming in his hand sends me over the edge as an orgasm rockets through my body.
I pant, groan, and slump against the door.
When I open my eyes, he’s sitting there, smirking. “I’m going to call you right back. I need to put on a new shirt,” he says.
“You do that.”
I hang up, head to the bathroom in this hazy, heady state, wash my hands, clean up. I return to the living room, flop down on the couch, and grab the phone when he calls back.
On video again.
“Hi,” I say.
He’s in his bedroom, the phone balanced on the bureau, and he’s sliding his strong arms into a crisp, starched shirt. “Do I look more civilized?”
“I don’t know how I’d keep my hands off you if I saw you wearing a suit in person.”
He finishes sliding the top shirt button into the hole. “Don’t ever say such a horrible thing. Keep your hands off me? That’s crazy talk.”
“Utter insanity. My hands would be all over you,” I say with a smile. I park a palm behind my head, and he knots his tie again.
His gaze snags on mine. “You like watching me get dressed, don’t you?”
“I do,” I say.
“If you were here, would you tie my tie for me?”
“I absolutely would. Though I make no promises about whether I would put it on or take it off.”
“Babe, I would just love if you were here,” he says, soft and tender.
“Me too. But you’re playing great. I’m proud of you,” I say.
“Thank you.”
“How’s your pact? Aren’t you breaking it by talking to me?”
Fitz shrugs. “Maybe. Don’t care anymore. Don’t care at all.”
“Thank you for the jukebox. That was incredible.” He deserves a million thank-yous.
“Does she like it?”
“She loves it. You made a very happy Maeve,” I say, as he finishes with the tie.
“I’m going to the arena now. Come with me?”
I laugh. “Sure, Fitz. Take me in the car.”
“If you were here, would you come to my game?”
“I would.”
Fitz leaves his place, locks the door, and heads down the hall to a mirrored brass elevator.
As he makes his way to the game, I talk to him the whole time—about New York and hockey and life and missing him and missing me. When he arrives at the arena, he asks, “Can I call you later?”
“You better.”
He gets out of the car, thanks the driver, then says to me, “Dean . . .”
My name is full of heat and need and want. I say his back the same way. “Fitz.”
He smiles at me. “I love you. That is all.”
“I love you,” I tell him, and when the call ends, I think I understand how it feels to be happy again.
The question is what to do about it.
We fall into a rhythm, just like we did when Fitz was here.
We talk at night—we FaceTime, we get off. We talk again in the morning. We text during the day.
He no longer cares about the pact.
He’s playing great, and he says it’s because I give him a good luck charm before every game. That’s what he calls it now when I dirty talk him before he heads to the ice. It’s our thing, and it works.
One night, after I tell him about a book I just finished, he says he has special news for me. He holds up a sheet of paper. “I asked the team doc to test for everything.”
That gets my attention, and I sit up, peering more closely at the report. “That’s excellent news.”
“Clean bill of health, babe.”
I stretch my arm to my bedside table, reach into a drawer, and show him mine, pressing it to the screen. “Same here.”
His blue eyes darken, glimmering with desire and dirty deeds. “Can we go bare when I see you again?”
The prospect of doing that for the first time is insanely arousing. “Yes.”
“I never have before. Not with anyone.”
“Nor have I,” I say.
The conversation quickly turns fantastically filthy as I tell him how good it’s going to feel, and he shows me how much he likes it when I talk like that.
A Guy Walks Into My Bar Page 26