A Guy Walks Into My Bar

by Lauren Blakely

  “All you can do is be his friend. And be her friend. That’s all you can do,” I say.

  “Yeah. It is,” he echoes.

  Later, after Fitz wins, notching an epic slap shot that I cheer the loudest for, my fiancé curls up with me in bed. “Did you have a good time at the game?”

  “Always.”

  “And how’s Leo?”

  I shake my head. “You can’t imagine the ass-kicking that love is serving him right now.”

  “Yeah?”

  I don’t go into the details. It’s not my story to tell. Instead, I give him a one-sentence summary. “It makes what we went through to get here seem easy.”

  Fitz arches a brow. “Was it hard though?”

  “I dunno. Was it?”

  “It’s hard now.” He nudges me with his pelvis.

  I crack up, feeling the evidence. “You have such a one-track mind.”

  “I know, but some things are always hard, babe. I can’t help it. I’m in bed with you. It’s just always going to be hard.”

  “Get your lips on mine.”

  When he kisses me, all thoughts of other people’s love lives fall out of my head, because mine is just too damn good.

  And it’s not because we’re lucky.

  It’s because we made it happen.

  And this summer, I’m marrying him.

  The First Epilogue

  Fitz

  I was right.

  My mom loves Dean.

  All my sisters do too. Emma, Carrie, and Sarah. They’re all here in New York for a June wedding.

  We’ll meet them in Central Park later.

  For now, I’m getting ready at our home with my guy. My fiancé. The other groom.

  We’re not doing the whole don’t see each other before the ceremony thing. That’s not our style.

  Our style is this—he wears a tailored dark-blue suit. Mine is lighter blue. I fasten his tie. He knots mine.

  And then I step back and take a look at the man who’s going to be my husband. “You clean up well, Dean Collins.”

  “Same to you, James Fitzgerald.”

  “Picture time,” I say, holding up my phone in the living room as I snap a selfie on our wedding day. I show it to him.

  “Keeping it. Definitely keeping it,” he says.

  And we head to the park in a limo together. We walk in together. And we meet our families together.

  That’s how we walk down the aisle, which is really the stone walkway at Bethesda Terrace. Hand in hand, my mom on one side, his dad on the other, then it’s just us at the front with a justice of the peace.

  Everyone I care about is here. Everyone he cares about is here too. All his friends from London, Naveen and Anya, Taron and his fiancé, Maeve and Sam, and Dean’s father and his girlfriend, Penny.

  My friends from New York, who are now our friends.

  Most of my teammates too.

  Everyone we love.

  But I only have eyes for one person.

  “Do you, James Fitzgerald, take this man to be your husband?” the justice of the peace asks on a warm summer day as the sun shines brightly above us.

  I say the easiest words ever. “I do.”

  “And do you, Dean Collins, take this man to be your husband?”

  The guy I love madly, beyond anything, more than anyone else in the whole universe, locks his eyes with mine and makes me the happiest man in the world when he says, “I do.”

  And then I kiss the groom.

  Something I plan to do every day for the rest of my life.

  Maeve’s Epilogue

  A few weeks ago

  After I close one evening in May, I survey the pool table in a corner of The Magpie, the one I decided to get because it reminds me of Dean, as if a little piece of my friend is still here.

  I can hear him in my head, assessing the guys, deciding which one’ll tempt me tonight.

  One of the benefits of the game Dean and I played was that it kept me from jumping into a bad choice. And I’ve made some. Plenty of guys seem good on paper and then turn out to be total wastes of time.

  Take Jeremy, the best and worst of them. Went to Cambridge, nabbed a fancy law degree, dressed like James Bond. He wrote poetry on the side and would read it to me while we sat on the balcony.

  It was perfect. Except, of course, for how he was doing private poetry readings for some other woman at the same time.

  But that’s all in the past, because I’ve found the perfect relationship. I pour my soul into this one, and in return, it just gets better and better. It’s a lot of work, but The Magpie will never let me down.

  I find the flyer for the tasting event on my desk. The Bars and Wineries of London tasting tomorrow. While there I’ll have the chance to talk up what I love.

  Makes missing my best friend a little bit easier.

  The next morning, I’m one of the first to arrive at the event hotel, dressed in leggings and a casual top, with my dress and heels packed in a bag.

  I start hanging up the faux flowers and lights I picked out for the booth, and then I grab the glassware and liquor bottles for our sample cocktail.

  “Look who didn’t tell me she’d be here.” The deep baritone voice sends a spark along my skin. I turn to find Sam’s dark eyes glinting at me, paired with his sexy, crooked grin, like gin and vermouth.

  “Sam, you sneaky man. I could say the same—why didn’t you tell me you were going to be here? I saw you a couple of weeks ago, and you never mentioned it.”

  “A man’s got to have some mystery,” he says.

  “Well, your secret’s out of the bag now. Good to see you.”

  That’s the truth. It’s no hardship to be looking at his fabulous face. With a strong jaw, smoldering eyes, and just the right amount of scruff, he’s always been easy on the eyes. Plus, his sexy American accent just does it for me.

  Not that I gave him a second thought until recently. When I first met him a few years ago, he was married, which established him firmly in the “just mates” column.

  As a friend of Dean’s, we always found ourselves at the same parties and events and I got to know him better after his split, and he became my friend too.

  “And you. Looks like I lucked out with my booth neighbor,” Sam says, drawing me into a hug. He feels so solid pressed against me, and he smells like clean sandalwood. I catch myself breathing him in and step back.

  “How’s Sticks and Stones doing?”

  “No complaints. The bigger question is how are you doing without Dean?”

  “I miss him terribly, especially when I need someone to lift heavy things or reach high shelves. Speaking of, I have to go find a ladder to get these tassels hung up.”

  I hold up the gold-and-silver tassels I brought to liven up the top of the booth.

  “He’s not the only tall guy around, you know. I can give you a hand.”

  “Oh, I’m fine,” I say. I’ve gotten used to going it alone. “I’ll just stretch high.”

  Sam laughs, low and hearty. “What kind of friend would I be if I didn’t step in to help?”

  I glance behind me at the booth.

  But on the other hand, I could use the help. “I do need to get changed. Would you be willing to hang some stuff up while I run to the loo?”

  Sam frowns. “Wait a minute. You’re not going to wear those fine leggings?”

  Oh, did he just compliment my legs? I think he did, and I liked it.

  “Sadly, no. I need to look like a professional. Ergo, no yoga pants.”

  Sam sighs. “Such a shame. But I guess I’ll help you out anyway.”

  I laugh and grab my bag of clothes. A rush of heat runs down the back of my neck at feeling Sam’s eyes on me.

  I tell myself not to read too much into Sam and his flirtations, and head for the restroom, where I swap gym clothes for the red dress I picked for the occasion.

  I slip on my heels and head back to the booth. My mouth falls open when I see that Sam not only has finished han
ging the tassels but also has set out my flyers for The Magpie.

  “Booth decorator extraordinaire.”

  “Indeed I am,” he says, and when he turns around, his eyes take an obvious detour up my body.

  “And with that dress, I don’t know that I’ll be able to pay attention to my booth.”

  I roll my eyes, though I don’t mind the compliment. “Please. It’ll be easy. You’ll have so many ladies flocking to you. Just like they do in life.”

  “Do they flock to me? I hadn’t noticed.”

  I laugh. “Oh no, you’re not trapping me into admitting that.”

  But it’s hard to tear my gaze away from the handsome man as he walks to his booth beside mine.

  Uh-oh.

  I know this feeling.

  This feeling can only lead to trouble.

  It’s the same one that led me to think that Jeremy was a good guy.

  If anything, liking Sam would be even riskier. The inevitable crash and burn would hurt more because he wouldn’t be some random guy. I would lose a friend.

  So, I need to pull it together and ignore the remnant of heat skating along the back of my neck.

  Even though it feels so good.

  By the time the event’s over, I’ve made more small talk than I ever thought possible—which, as an experienced bartender, is saying something—and have run out of ways to describe The Magpie’s “modern, inventive energy.” I’ve also served hundreds of old-fashioneds, and I’m sure I smell like orange and whiskey.

  As I pack up the glassware and the decorations Sam stops by, smiles and starts taking down my higher decorations.

  “You read my mind,” I say, setting a hand briefly on his shoulder. His strong, firm shoulder. “Dean used to help me with stuff like that. Too bad the prat had to go and fall in love.”

  Sam laughs. “From what I hear, someone did push him along the way.”

  I shrug, grabbing some of the flyers and tucking them in a box. “Who am I to stand in the way of true love?”

  “You really knew right away that they’d be good for each other?”

  I grin, nodding. “With those two? Absolutely. Or at least I knew they had incredibly hot chemistry.”

  “And that translates to love?”

  “I think you could argue that true love needs true chemistry.”

  “Now you’re philosophizing, Maeve.”

  “It needs more than that, obviously,” I say. “You need trust and commitment and honesty. But to get off the ground, maybe, love needs chemistry. You need to be with someone who gets you.”

  “Sounds like you’re speaking from experience,” Sam says thoughtfully.

  The conversation is dancing too close to the topic of romantic history, and I’m not inclined to dive into my past heartbreak. Not with Sam.

  So I answer, “Only because it feels like everyone I know is falling in love these days.”

  “Tell me about it,” Sam says in a beleaguered voice. “I have my friend Tom’s engagement party to go to next weekend. I already know I’m going to have to field tons of ‘Where’s Emily?’ questions from people who don’t know about the divorce.”

  “That has to be rough.”

  Now we’re not just dancing near the topic of broken hearts. We’ve landed on it.

  “So . . . have you dated?” I ask. “Since . . .”

  “I sort of took a break. I’m in no hurry to go through all that again.”

  My heart jumps a little at that.

  “I know what you mean,” I say. And because I do understand, and because he’s a friend, it only seems right to offer to help.

  “What about a friend? Would it help to go to the party with someone you’re just mates with?”

  “Are you offering your services?”

  “That makes it sound so improper,” I say.

  “Sometimes improper is a very good thing.”

  “Indeed it is,” I add.

  “And proper or improper, it would be nice to go with a friend. I could return the favor at any time.”

  “I do have a charity event I have to go to in a few weeks,” I say. “Dean always went with me, but since he’s gone, it’d be great to have a friend there.”

  There’s more to it, but I’m not quite ready to give him all the details. If he says yes, I can fill him in later.

  “I’d be happy to volunteer my services.”

  “All the proper and improper ones?” I ask, a little flirty.

  Fine, a lot flirty.

  “All of the above.”

  I pretend with all my might that this is nothing. Just a flirty friend, just two events.

  What could go wrong?

  On the day of the engagement party, Sam texts that he’ll pick me up at my flat. Since it’s a daytime party, I choose a fit-and-flare dress, light pink with a simple tulip pattern on the skirt, and I fashion my hair into a French twist. My picture could go in a wiki entry for “daytime social occasion.”

  When I open the door, Sam’s eyes slowly widen. He swallows a little roughly and clears his throat. “Wow. You look . . . stunning.”

  Stunning doesn’t sound just-friendly, but I like it.

  “I’m just trying to help you make a good impression.”

  “Oh, you’re definitely going to make a good impression. On me,” he says, and oh my, did he just go there?

  I don’t mind that he did.

  But I’m also not entirely sure if we should be playing these flirty games, so once we’re inside the Lyft, I ask about Tom, his engaged friend.

  “We’ve become pretty good buds through our running group,” he says as we swing past the park. “It’s my relatively new hobby.”

  “New, as in post-divorce?”

  “Yes. Try not to be blown away by the coolness of it. But yup. I needed to do something to get out of the house.”

  I pat his hand. “It sounds like you were trying to make the best of things.”

  I don’t press the subject, but I’m learning that I like that Sam can talk about it. He doesn’t hide what he’s gone through. He’s spoken more openly than I have about my relationship ending.

  Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to open up.

  “This stuff’s always hard, isn’t it?” I ask, a little wistfully, as the car slows at a light. “Engagement parties and weddings. After you’ve . . . gone through a breakup. They were hard for me right after anyway. Are you okay? With going?”

  For a moment, Sam stares out the window. I wonder if I’ve gone too far, but then he smiles. “Yeah, I’m okay. I’m better since you’re here.”

  He reaches over to squeeze my hand. Just a friendly squeeze, but it sends shivers all up and down my body.

  Alarm bells go off again, warning me to keep this chummy. But I’m not having the easiest time of that. And I don’t entirely want to listen to the alarm.

  Especially as I drink him in. His sharp jawline, freshly shaved. The way he runs his hands through his dark hair. The way his eyes light up when he talks.

  The way he makes me feel safe.

  Then, of course, there’s the fact that his hand still lingers on mine.

  He glances down at it and then at me. For a moment, all I can do is look into his eyes.

  The eyes of a thoughtful, funny, single man.

  The car pulls to a halt at Roehampton Club, jolting us out of the moment.

  At the event, we say hello to the guests of honor then wander through the crowds, nibbling on the crab-stuffed mushrooms and spring rolls. Sam keeps me laughing with jokes and stories from his American childhood. We drink pinot grigio as he tells me about the major differences between Los Angeles and New York, saying that Los Angeles has better views, but New York has more honest people, and then saying London’s a perfect mix of the two.

  Soon, the DJ starts up with toasts to the happy couple. Soon enough, he’s calling everyone to the dance floor, and Sam stands and extends his hand to me.

  “How about a dance?”

  The prospect sends ting
les down my spine, and it’s the tingles that sound those warning bells again. Laughing is one thing. Shivers are another. Shivers lead to more, and more leads to heartbreak.

  Correction: tingles and shivers can lead to more, but they don’t have to. I’m only agreeing to a dance. Nothing wrong with that.

  I think of Dean and Fitz, careening forward into the unknown together. That is frightening. This is just a dance.

  Sam leads me to the floor by the hand, but there’s a fast song playing, which is perfect. It’s all fun and games and whirling and laughing. We get our groove on for two more songs before the DJ switches it up with a slower tune.

  A couple’s tune.

  I sense more than see Sam’s questioning look. No pressure, just wondering. I’m not sure I’m ready for his arms around me, even in public.

  I adore flirting with him. So why balk at a slow dance? But the question isn’t so much can I trust him, but can I trust myself? I’m not sure so I say I’m ready for a drink.

  Later, he takes me home, and he’s quite proper as he says goodbye.

  A blip—more than a blip, if I’m honest—of disappointment surprises me. I wouldn’t have minded an improper goodbye.

  A few days after the engagement party, a bouquet of flowers arrives for me at The Magpie.

  I eye them curiously, and the note too.

  Maeve,

  Thank you for suffering through that with me. It might be the most fun I’ve ever had at a required social gathering.

  Yours, Sam

  How did he know about the sunflowers? It’s not as if I’ve broadcasted that they’re my favorite. How could he know that they remind me of summer days and fresh starts?

  I text Dean immediately. He’s the only one I’ve told about my love of sunflowers—I gushed to him about getting them for the opening of The Magpie.

  Maeve: Did you tell him?

  Dean: Tell who what?