Page 59 of A Guy Walks Into My Bar
As I turn around, Dean’s looking at me a little expectantly. Like he’s waiting for me to render a verdict on his home.
“I love it,” I say, then my gaze catches on some bookshelves. Framed photos line the top shelf. I walk over and pick one up. “That’s you and Naveen and Anya,” I say, studying the picture of them all at some sort of street fair. A candid picture of Dean with his friends, laughing and carefree.
“Yes.”
“When’s it from?”
“Two years ago, I think.”
I set it down, this piece of Dean’s history.
Then I find a picture of Dean and Sam crossing a finish line in a race. Looks like a 10K, and the date is a year ago. Their arms are raised. From the race banner, I see it’s a fundraiser for a local children’s hospital, and that tugs on my heart even more, another piece of his past. I’m looking through a window into his life, and I want to know it all, see it all.
The next shot is Dean lining up a pool cue and aiming it across the table. The guy he’s playing with has dark skin, much darker than Dean’s. I kind of love that he has friends from so many places and so many walks of life. “Who’s that?”
Dean moves next to me. “Taron.”
“Ah, the one who’s not your type.”
“Exactly. He’s a good mate though. Outgoing, vibrant. I wish you’d met him the other night.”
“I wish I had too.”
My eyes drift down the row of photos, ravenous to see more of his life, to gobble up all this insight into who he is, what makes him tick, and his world. Pictures of him and Maeve at the bar, then a posed shot of them outside The Magpie, arms wrapped around each other, smiling, and an open for business sign behind them.
“Last year?”
“Yup.”
I pick up more pictures of him and Maeve, including one of her lifting a pillow to swat him. He’s holding up his hands as if to defend himself. They’re in a tiny room, and he looks younger.
My heart thunders. “That’s you in college, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t room with Maeve, did you?”
He laughs, shaking his head. “No. But we spent a ton of time together.”
“You guys are really close,” I say, stating the obvious as I stare at the picture of Dean and his best friend like I can’t get enough of it.
“We are,” he says, then moves in behind me, wraps his arms around my waist, and brushes a soft kiss to my neck.
I set down the picture, close my eyes, and let myself enjoy the sensation of being in his embrace, feeling his lips, his touch, his strength.
I grab his hands clasped around my stomach, and clutch them so he won’t let go of me.
But it’s not just him I’m holding on to.
It’s the last shred of my resistance.
It’s so threadbare right now.
I don’t know if I can hold out much longer.
We stay like that for a minute or two, quiet as his lips travel across the back of my neck, and I try—I try so damn hard—not to say everything I’m feeling for him.
Stay in the moment, I tell myself.
So I do, just savoring Dean’s tender kisses on my neck, his arms wrapped around me, and the way he seems to know what I need right now.
Him.
Just him.
This moment is as close to perfect as any moment has ever been. I don’t want it to end. I don’t want anything to end.
But all of it has to.
Every moment, every second will be over in less than two days.
Soon enough, he lets go. “My dad will be here any minute with the food. And as cool as he is, I don’t want him to see me like this—looking like I’m about to take you to my bed.”
I manage a laugh, turn around, and drag my fingers through my hair, a makeshift comb. With a deep breath, I center myself. “Agreed.” Then I furrow my brow, focusing on the practical. “Want me to grab some wine or something? I can run to the store. Pick up a bottle.”
Dean waves a hand, dismissing the offer. “The one thing I have plenty of is liquor. You can help me find a bottle if you’d like. He enjoys red wine.”
I join him in the kitchen, rubbing my palms together. “Let’s find some red wine for Dean’s dad.”
The hunt briefly takes my mind off this train rattling down the tracks.
A train that’s gathering speed, and I don’t think I can stop it.
But I also don’t think I want to stop it. There’s a part of me that wants to be walloped by it. To feel it. To feel everything for him that’s coming my way.
Dean’s father deals the final cards. Empty takeaway boxes and the remnants of dinner—he brought a curry from Naveen’s restaurant, and it was amazing—are strewn on the kitchen counter, but my attention is on this game of poker.
