by Sarah Title
“See, now, this is the kind of guy you need to avoid,” Dakota said, pointing at Rick. Rick looked alarmed.
“Oh, I wasn’t…I mean…I don’t…” He held up his left hand. “I’m not trying anything here. Really, we just wanted a place to stand.”
“It doesn’t matter. Even if you were trying something, you are no longer Becky’s type.”
“What about your type?” Bullhorn asked Dakota.
“My type is short guys with unfortunate nicknames.”
Rather than being deflated by Dakota’s withering sarcasm, Bullhorn puffed out his chest. “Perfect!”
Dakota rolled her eyes—this guy was going to give her a headache with all the eye rolls he was causing—and turned back to scanning the crowd. Becky gave both the guys a small smile and followed Dakota’s investigation.
After a minute or two, Rick and Bullhorn started talking to each other, and they didn’t pay any attention as Dakota pointed out a guy in a red toboggan (too loud), another guy in a suit (whoops, forgot about the no-suits thing), and a guy in a very tight T-shirt (too in love with his own muscles).
“I have a great idea,” Becky said. “How about if we just finish these beers and go somewhere else?”
Dakota sighed. “Fine. At least I never have to go to a sports bar again. Wait—” She stopped and grabbed Becky’s wrist. “What about him?”
Becky turned to face the guy Dakota was full-on gawking at. Not very subtle, but subtle was her normal approach, and fulfilling Dakota’s plan called for abnormal behavior.
He was standing in the doorway, giving her dirty lumberjack in a flannel and jeans that made her want to go over there and squeeze his tush. He was giving her Henry Cavill as pre-Superman pulling clothes off a washline in the rain. He was giving her all-man, all-hairy forearms and dark hair and looking strong enough to climb.
And then he was giving her a look, and those eyes shot right into her gut as he matched her ogle with a curious heat of his own.
Dang, she should come to sports bars more often.
“Quit drooling,” Dakota whispered to her.
“No.”
“Well, then, go talk to him. Quick, before the two of you undress each other with your eyes.” Dakota fanned herself. “Lucky girl, go on.” She nudged Becky with her hip, and Becky was going to do it, she was actually going to approach a guy and straight-up proposition him for hot, lumberjack sex.
Then they learned how Bullhorn earned his nickname.
Because he shouted, “Deke the Freak!” and called the guy over.
<1L#>
Foster Deacon was experiencing decidedly mixed feelings as he entered the bar where he was meeting his old frat brothers to watch the game. On the one hand, it would be good to see them. He hadn’t kept up with them at all when he moved to New York after law school, and besides, he had planned on watching the game anyway. On the other hand, he really didn’t have the mental energy to be out in public. He had too much unpacking to do. He barely had time to shower, and he definitely hadn’t had the time—or energy—to shave. And he’d had to turn down an invitation from Madison to hang out, and wasn’t that part of the point of moving back to Denver? Temporarily? Temporarily moving back.
He had mixed feelings about that, too.
Not about Denver. He loved Denver, even if she did kick his ass with an altitude sickness hangover on his first night back. But his family was here, and his mom would take his move—temporary move—as an indication he was ready to settle down, which he was not. He was just here to win a big case for a law firm that wasn’t run by his father and to do whatever he could to keep his baby sister out of trouble.
Once that was done, he was out of here.
“Deke the Freak!”
It didn’t take him long to find Rick and Eric in the crowd. Rick was almost seven feet tall, and even if he wasn’t, well, Eric hadn’t earned the nickname Bullhorn for nothing.
“Just like old times, man,” Rick said as Foster got close enough to hear without Rick yelling. And it was. How many sports bars had they gone to, surrounded by folks cheering for the Broncos or the Rockies, with the occasional table of pretty girls thrown in? As he and Rick did the handshake into one-armed man hug, Foster got a better look at the woman he’d locked eyes with at the entrance. But she was having a whispered conversation with her friend, which was just as well. Foster was here to catch up with his friends, not to settle down.
Not that he would necessarily have to settle down with her.
“Just in time, brother. It’s your round,” Bullhorn said, giving him a lightish shove toward the bar.
Just like old times.
Well, if he was going to the bar…
“Can I get you guys anything?” he asked their tablemates. Just to be friendly. He might be tired, but he was still a gentleman.
The one who’d caught his eye earlier—the blonde one—looked surprised. But why should she be surprised? Hot girl, good manners = buy a drink.
“No, thanks,” she said, holding up her still very-full pint of beer. “I’ve got—”
“She’d love it,” her friend said, nudging the blonde. “That’s very nice, thank you.”
“Thank you,” the blonde parroted.
By the time he got back to the table with a bucket of beers—easier to carry than five pints—Bullhorn was regaling them with a story that had them riveted.
“And that’s how he got the name Deke the Freak.”
Well, there went any chance of sharing his sweet time in Colorado with the hot blonde.
He never should have let Bullhorn talk him into amateur night at that dance club. Foster was a terrible dancer. And too drunk to realize that taking his shirt off had not made him a better one. And that taking off one’s jeans surrounded by screaming drunk people while also drunk was not a graceful way to end his first and last night on the stage. When it got really cold, he still had an ache in his hip.
“That was ten years ago,” Foster reminded him as both women looked at him with renewed interest. Mostly laughing interest, but, well, that was what he got for trying to have a reunion with Bullhorn.
“Cancuuuuuuuuuuun!” Bullhorn was howling as Rick approached with a round of shots. When had Rick gotten a round of shots?
“As soon as he started telling that story, I figured you’d need this,” he said, handing Foster some liquid salvation. Rick offered them around, and Foster noticed the blonde didn’t take one, but she gamely cheered with her beer. Foster downed the shot and let it burn all the way down. God, that hurt.
“Welcome back, Deke.” Rick wasn’t quite as shouty as Eric was, but he seemed to be on the verge of getting sentimental. “The crew is back together.”
“The crew!” Bullhorn shouted, and the two of them did the whole grunt-grunt-grunt-woo! thing they used to do that had gotten them kicked out of many sports bars like this one.
“So, you’re not from around here?” the blonde asked. OK, good. They were talking.
“I am,” he said as a touchdown shout went up from the crowd. He leaned in so she could hear him. “I am. But I just moved back. Just temporarily.”
“Oh, that’s great!” she said, with more enthusiasm than he thought the comment really warranted. But, well, she looked cute when she was enthusiastic.
“How about you? Are you from around here?”
“Born and raised.”
He didn’t want to get into the whole what-school-did-you-go-to thing; he went to a private boys’ school, so the chances she was a fellow alum were pretty slim. In fact, he didn’t want to get into any boring stuff from the past. He was here to look forward. To make partner and to move on.
“I’m Becky,” she said, and stuck out her hand.
And that was what electricity felt like.
She looked surprised and pulled her hand back, but she didn’t break eye contact. She tucked her hair behind her ear and bit her lip, but she didn’t break eye contact.
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He lost count of the rounds they ordered, although he didn’t have more than one beer after that shot. Becky seemed to be nursing that one pint as well. She was a slow drinker. She was also funny and self-deprecating and really seemed to like his beard, if the amount of time she spent glancing at it was any indication.
Foster was very glad he’d had neither the time nor the energy to shave.
He was also glad he hadn’t given in to the urge to unpack, no matter how much he hated the idea of living out of a suitcase for a minute longer.
He liked talking to Becky. He wouldn’t mind talking to her again. Maybe walking her to her car. Getting her number. Seeing if she wanted to go in for a kiss…
“Deke, we’re gonna go hit up Pete’s,” Rick said to him. “You comin’?”
Well, it hadn’t been much of a reunion because he’d barely spoken to Rick—just enough to learn that the wife and kids were doing fine—and couldn’t get a word in edgewise with Bullhorn.
“Breakfast burrito with chili,” Bullhorn shouted.
He wasn’t drunk enough to find Pete’s greasy food appealing—he’d never even been to Pete’s Kitchen sober—but he felt like he should make an effort to have an actual conversation with his friends.
But then there was Becky, fiddling with the ends of her hair and taking those not-very-subtle glances at his beard.
Eh, they were guys. They didn’t need conversation.
“Um, you know what?” Foster said. “I think I’m gonna stick around here. Watch the end of the game.”
“You mean the game that ended ten minutes ago?”
Rick elbowed Bullhorn.
“Oh, got it. Catch ya later, dude.”
“Dude?” Becky’s friend asked, pulling on her coat. “What are you, a Colorado surfer?”
“Catch a wave, brah,” Bullhorn said, flashing a hang-loose sign.
“Wait, are you going?” Becky asked her friend.
“Yeah. Gosh, I’m so tired. Gotta get up early in the morning.”
Becky arched her eyebrow. Her friend fake yawned.
“But listen, you don’t have to leave on my account. Deke will walk you to your car.”
“I will,” Foster volunteered. “If you want to stay.”
“Sure. Sure, I’ll stay.”
“May I treat you to an omelet, m’lady?” Bullhorn asked Becky’s friend.
“Do they have vegan omelets?”
“What do you think this is, Boulder?”
“And you’re not vegan,” Becky said, looking a little confused.
“I know. Come on, Bullhorn. Buy me some breakfast.” She took his arm and led him out the door. Foster wasn’t sure if he’d ever seen Bullhorn so happy.
Rick waved at them and followed the new couple out the door.
“Well.” Becky swirled the little left in her glass. “Your friends are nice.”
“So is yours.”
“She is. I’m a little nervous she’s going to eat Bullhorn alive.”
“Probably. But he’ll love every minute of it.”
“He will?”
“Bullhorn’s always had a thing for bossy women.”
“Hey, Dakota’s not bossy.” She pursed her lips at him like she was annoyed. Then she unpursed them. “Actually, yes, she is. Hey, let’s not talk about Dakota.”
“Or Bullhorn.”
“Or the fact that you have a friend named Bullhorn.”
He laughed. Then a silence settled over them. He wasn’t sure if it was awkward exactly. But it felt like an impatient silence. Maybe that was just him. He knew what he wanted, but he didn’t want to be the one to bring it up. He was a gentleman, after all.
“So…uh. Have you read any good books lately?”
And that was what he was waiting for. For her to bring up reading.
He smiled, because it was a sweet question, and if she wasn’t as ready to jump into his pants as he was into hers, he wasn’t going to push it.
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