Page 111 of A Guy Walks Into My Bar
“It’s a good look on you,” Fitz says.
“Keep putting it there,” I say, before I realize the double entendre. But I bet he’ll pick up on it in three, two, one . . .
“I will. I promise. Always.” Then he brings his mouth to my ear. “Also, I’ll keep putting it everywhere.” And he pushes his pelvis against me.
I crack up. “I knew it. I was counting down in my head. I fucking knew you’d be unable to resist that.”
“How can I resist when you make it so easy?” He runs his hand around the back of my neck, an appreciative rumble in his throat as he hauls me close. The two of us, we’ve never been good at keeping our hands off each other. “Speaking of easy . . .”
“Are you trying to cop a feel again?”
Fitz shakes his head. “Just trying to kiss the groom one more time.”
“Let me help you, then.”
I grab his face and bring his lips to mine, kissing him for the hundredth time today.
I close my eyes and savor every second of my mouth on his. My tongue sliding between his lips, the hunger in our kiss, the way it makes my head hazy and my chest hot.
Mostly, how it never gets old.
Which is why I should stop.
I set my hand on his chest, gently breaking the contact.
He pouts. “I’m so sad. Why’d you stop a hot wedding kiss, babe?”
“Because I like it too much. Always have.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“It’s a good thing. It’s a great thing.” I tip my forehead to the floor-to-ceiling windows that give a perfect view of all our guests inside the boathouse. “But it’s also a dangerous thing, since I suspect we’ll have to go back in there, and I don’t want to be wildly aroused the rest of the night.”
He glances downward toward his crotch. “That ship already sailed for me.”
I give him a serious look. “I have faith in you. You can soften.”
“You shouldn’t have any faith in that. Ever. I’m pretty much a lost cause the rest of the night. We could just skip out early . . .”
“Patience, Fitz. Patience. Good things come to those who wait.”
He growls. “Now I’m more turned on. Thanks. Thanks a lot.” Then he shrugs his broad shoulders. “Whatever. I don’t care. As if they can’t all figure out I want to shag you,” he says, dipping into his English accent tool kit.
“Classy.”
“C’mon, Dean. It’s obvious. Anyone who looks at us is jealous.”
“Is that so?” I ask, loving his confidence, loving the way he talks about us, how he sees us, what we have. What we’re so damn lucky to have.
“Of course. We have it all. Love and sex. Sex and love. And all that goes with it. Happiness.” Fitz reaches for my hand, threading his fingers through mine. “Have I told you how glad I am you moved here?”
He tells me that every day. And every day I say the same thing in return. I tell him that now too. “Best decision I ever made.”
He taps his chin. “Wait. Technically, wouldn’t the best decision you ever made be agreeing to a fling with me?”
I stare at the inky sky, filled with stars. “Hmm. Fair point. That was a good one too. Since, without it, you’d never have known I’d rock your world.”
“Exactly. So maybe that was your best decision. I think mine was walking into your bar.”
“Obviously,” I say, then my brow knits as my brain snags on a detail I’ve never asked him. Funny, that after nearly a year together, I never thought to ask him why. “By the way, why did you go to my bar that night? Was it just coincidence?”
Fitz grins. “You think it was fate, don’t you?”
I laugh. “I don’t believe in fate.”
“Of course you don’t.”
“And why do you say that?”
“Because you believe in facts and logic and pros and cons.”
“So, did you make a list of pros and cons that night of various bars to go to?” I ask.
“That’s your style, babe. You want to know why I was there?”
“Yeah. I do. That’s why I’m asking. I’m assuming it was just random. Was it? Random?”
He lifts a brow wolfishly. “Or are you thinking maybe I looked up the hottest bartenders in London? Found a website? Like a top ten list of sexy Brits. And I ran my finger over it, stopped, pointed at the one who looked like Michael B. Jordan, and said, ‘Damn, I hope he likes dick’?”
I press my palm over his mouth. “Shut up. Just shut up. You’re not allowed to speak anymore.”
He bites my palm, and when I remove my hand, he’s laughing.
“Oliver told me about The Magpie,” he says, still chuckling.
“Oliver? Really?”
Fitz nods.
“But I’d never met him. He’d heard about the bar?”
Fitz strokes his beard. “If memory serves, last summer when I told him and Logan I was headed to England with Emma, he said, ‘Don’t forget to check out The Magpie. Some of my mates over there were raving about it. It’s their favorite local bar.’”
