Page 107 of A Guy Walks Into My Bar
“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 tingles 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.
