Page 60 of A Guy Walks Into My Bar
I pick up my cards, considering my hand.
My sucky, shitty hand.
Maybe I can bluff though. Yeah, I do that on the ice. I can do it here. I want to impress Dean’s dad.
I slide another chip across the table, staying in.
His father arches a brow, then pushes in two more chips to join mine. “You’re bluffing.”
I blink, and try to keep my tone neutral. “Not bluffing.”
Dean reins in a laugh, covering his mouth.
“You think I’m bluffing?” I toss out to my guy.
Dean just shrugs and smiles.
“I guess we’ll find out,” I say, with more bravado than my cards call for.
His father shoots me a skeptical stare. “All right. What have you got, Yankee?”
Smiling, I lay down my cards, loving that his dad calls me Yankee. Nicknames are a good thing in my book.
His father cracks up, leaning back on the couch, clapping a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “Your friend can’t bluff for shit.”
“No, Dad. It’s that you can always tell when someone is bluffing.”
His father nods solemnly. “That is true. Very true.”
“Fine, fine. Maybe I suck at poker,” I admit.
“No, you just need a better poker face,” his dad tells me, as he squeezes Dean’s shoulder. “This one? He has a great poker face. I taught him well.”
“Those are important life lessons, sir,” I say.
They both laugh.
“What’s so funny?”
“You don’t have to call him ‘sir,’” Dean says.
“Just use my name,” his dad says. “Martin.”
“Okay, Martin,” I say, but it’s still weird. Maybe it’s only because this is the first parent of a lover I’ve met.
Ever.
“Or just call me ‘old man,’ like Dean does.”
“I call it like I see it, old man,” Dean says.
“Yes, I suppose you do. And I’ve been meaning to ask, would you like me to tell your friend embarrassing stories about you from your younger days?”
My eyes widen. “Tell me everything.”
Dean shakes his head, staring daggers at his dad. “Reveal nothing, or I will march into Coffee O’clock tomorrow and tell Penny you’ve been pining away for her.”
Martin laughs loudly. “Dean, she already knows. We went out last night.”
“You scoundrel.”
He wiggles his brow and looks at his watch. “And on that note, I should get out of here. We’re going out again.”
“Double scoundrel.”
“Takes one to know one,” his father says, then rises and heads for the door.
“I want a full report tomorrow,” Dean says.
“Maybe I’ll tell you. Maybe I won’t.”
“Tease,” Dean says.
I follow them, clearing my throat. “It was great to meet you, Mr. Collins.”
Another laugh bursts from him. “You’re good with the formalities. I wasn’t expecting that.”
“Well, my mom and three sisters made it clear that manners matter.”
“They taught you well.” His father claps me on the shoulder. “Pleasure to meet you, James. Maybe we’ll see more of you.”
I wish, I want to say.
But instead, I say thank you.
When he leaves, Dean turns around and gives me a smile full of gratitude. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For being great with my dad.”
“It was easy.” That’s true of nearly everything with Dean.
Except for being with him the way I want to. Which is starting to feel like . . . every day. That’s how I want to be with him, and that makes things the opposite of easy.
The thought scares the shit out of me.
And kind of doesn’t at the same damn time.
As the door creaks shut, Dean’s gaze drifts to a book his dad left behind. He grabs it and tells me he’ll be right back.
“I’ll be here.” As his footsteps sound on the steps, I say those words again to Dean’s flat around me. I’ll be here.
Wishing there were a way, but knowing there’s not.
I’m going to just enjoy every last minute with him. That is all I can do.
26
Dean
I find my dad on the street and hand him the book. “I’m sure you’ll be too busy with Penny to read, but one never knows.”
“Same goes for you,” my dad says. He tips his head toward the door, glancing upstairs. “I like him.”
Three words, that’s all, but they make my heart glow. I didn’t realize until just now that I wanted them from my father. Needed them—his seal of approval.
“Me too,” I answer.
“I can tell.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, and it’s a good thing.”
“Feels like a good thing.”
Or really, a great thing.
He heads down the street, and I return to my flat to see that Fitz has cleared the table and is already washing the dishes.
I grin, ridiculously happy that he thought to do that. I grab a towel and start drying the dishes he’s already washed and rinsed, and we fall into an easy rhythm.
“I like your dad,” Fitz says, glancing at me.
“Thanks. So do I.”
“I can tell. You guys have a great relationship.”
“I’m lucky. We’re a lot alike, and honestly, we’re good friends too.” I take a beat, setting down a plate in the rack. “My dad said he liked you.” Once I speak the words, they feel significant. Bigger than I expected them to, like I’m opening up to Fitz in a whole new way.
