Page 43 of A Guy Walks Into My Bar
I keep my foot on the gas pedal of this no-strings arrangement. “Seeing as you’re not mad at me, and won’t be mad at me, since I plan to keep making you laugh and keep making you feel good, you should just call me Fitz. I like that better for you.”
“Why?”
“Because my teammates call me Fitzgerald. Well, they say, ‘Yo, Fitzgerald.’”
“Something you will never hear me say.”
“Also, I like the way you say Fitz.”
“Why’s that?”
I drop my voice to a whisper. “It’s sexy, the way you say it in the heat of the moment. It’s like my name tastes good on your tongue.”
Dean lets out a low rumble, leaning closer to me as crowds stream by, tourists and Londoners alike weaving past us. “You taste good on my tongue, Fitz.”
A bolt of lust slams into my chest, heating me up. This is what I’m talking about—lust, desire, pleasure.
“Right back atcha, Dean.” Then I drape an arm over his shoulders. That’s not holding hands. It’s not as intimate. It’s just a normal thing for us to do as we walk along the river then turn onto the bridge.
I survey the Thames from this vantage point, savoring the view of the ribbon of water as it snakes through the city. We stop in the middle of the bridge. I check out the setting, enjoying everything about it. The gray stone towers, like something out of Cinderella, complete with turrets, are flanked by a light-blue walkway and suspension railings. “Fine, you were right. This is hella pretty.”
“Hella,” he says, shaking his head in amusement. “Your Americanisms kill me.”
“Knackered bloody wanker. Same to you, bro.”
Dean rolls his eyes. “Bro. I die a slow death.”
“Has anyone ever told you that it’s easy to rile you up?”
“No. No one has. Maybe because no one likes to do it as much as you do.”
“True. I kinda love it. Pushing your buttons is my new favorite hobby.” I stop, park my elbows against the railing, and drink in the sights. “Yep, I can see why you like this one.”
“It’s lovely, isn’t it? Like a fairy tale.”
“Yeah, it’s got a very storybook vibe.” I punch his arm—that’s friendly, pals-y. “Good call.”
He shoots me an amused smile. “So, is this how we’re doing it? With bros and arm punches?”
My cheeks flame as he calls me out for trying too hard to be ultracasual. To treat Dean like one of the guys on the team, like Ransom, trash-talking each other to show we care.
“Sure? Why not?” I ask with a shrug, keeping it up because it feels necessary.
“Okay, wanker,” he says, staring at the water, his lips curving up in a grin. “Piss off,” he adds, punctuating the words, having fun with them.
“Aww. Are you gonna call me James next? Are you mad at me?”
He laughs, shaking his head. “You said it was impossible to be mad at you.”
“And is it?”
He turns his face to me. “No. I bet you could piss me off.” Dean’s voice is low, a little smoky, a hint of challenge in it.
“Why’s that?”
“I just think you have it in you.” It comes out even and offhand, but I’m not sure what to make of it.
I narrow my eyes. “Are you saying I’m a dick?”
He shakes his head, his tone more serious than I expected. “No. I’m just realistic. I think we as human beings have it in us to irritate each other. Even if you’re funny and make me come ridiculously hard, you can still piss me off.”
“That’s why I think it’s smart that we set rules for this,” I say as a reminder to us both. I need the part of my head that’s counting the hours to shut the hell up. Laying down the law will quiet that nagging part of my brain. “Boundaries are healthy. So everyone knows what to expect,” I add for good measure.
Dean flinches almost imperceptibly, but still, it’s there. “Of course, especially when we’re”—he stops, seems to almost let the words roll around on his tongue—“enjoying the scenery.”
I nod, making sure we’re both clear on the sitch. “I like scenery. I like to enjoy the scenery. But I also like to make sure everyone knows what to expect from the scenery. Know what I mean?”
He jerks his gaze to me, his eyes saying Oh no, you didn’t. “Pardon me?”
Uh-oh. I might have overstepped. “I’m just saying I’m busy, as you know,” I say, going for diplomacy before I quickly add, “So are you.”
“Very busy. So this is very temporary.” It comes out clipped.
And it feels like this conversation is veering straight out of riling each other up and right into pissing-each-other-off territory. But I don’t stop it from heading in that direction.
Instead, I pat my chest. “Don’t worry. I don’t do serious.”
“I don’t either,” Dean says, straightening his spine.
“Then we’re all good,” I say, my jaw tight, because he agrees so quickly, and that’s good, but it irks me too, for some stupid reason.
