Page 61 of A Guy Walks Into My Bar
I swallow roughly, waiting.
He looks at me out of the corner of his eye as he rinses off the last dish, puts it down, and wipes off his hands. He’s quiet, which is unlike him, so I fill the silence with another question. “Are you close with your mum like that?”
“Not in the same way exactly. But we’re open, and we talk. I call her every week. She texts me before each game and wishes me luck. She texts me after every game to say either ‘Congrats’ or ‘You’ll crush them next time.’”
“She sounds amazing,” I say, then I cast about for something more, something to fill this conversational void. “And have you talked—?”
He runs a hand along my arm, then at last answers my unspoken question. “She’d like you too, Dean. My mom would like you.”
Sparks spread across my skin. Only this time, it’s not from the contact—it’s from the admission that parallels mine.
“Is that so?” I put down the towel.
“Yes, it is so,” he says, imitating me.
“And why do you mock me for that?”
“Because it’s easy. And because you walk into it sometimes, so I can’t help it. Like the way you say, ‘Is that so?’ as if you doubt everything anyone says.”
“Perhaps I do. Perhaps I like facts. So, tell me. Why would your mum like me?” I ask, and we’re treading dangerously close to the deep end again. Lately, that seems like what we do with each other. Like we’re dipping our toes in the water all the time. Maybe soon, one of us will jump.
Or maybe we won’t. Maybe it’s safest to keep this on the safe, dry, limited ground where it belongs.
He shrugs easily. “Because I do.”
“It’s that simple?”
Fitz smirks before leaning over and kissing my cheek. “And because you’re adorable.”
I lift my chin. “I’m not adorable.”
“A little. You’re a little adorable,” he teases in his Harry Potter accent.
“Now you’re mocking me again.”
“I am, but you walked into it, man,” he says, shaking his head, amused.
“You really like taking the piss out of me, don’t you?”
“I really, really do,” he admits. “Anyway . . . after meeting your dad, I can tell, too, why you resisted me at first.”
I laugh as I grab the now-dry dishes to put away. “What does that have to do with my dad?”
“He’s skeptical . . . like you.”
Fitz makes a fair point. “It’s the reporter in him,” I say. “He looks at everything from every direction.”
“You’re the same. You looked at me that way.”
And he’s hit the nail on the head. “Yes. I don’t trust easily. I don’t give in easily.” I set the last dish in the cupboard and shut the door.
“Because of your mom?”
I lean against the counter. “Because of my mum. Because of my dad. Because of everything. It’s better to be skeptical, to be sure of what you’re getting into.”
“I get that. I respect that. You like to check out all the angles.”
“Exactly. Know what they are. What I’m walking into.”
He runs his hand down my arm again, then over my abs, toying with the waistband of my jeans, tugging me closer. “So, tell me. Why did you give in to me? Is it only because I’m leaving?” His tone is more earnest than I’ve ever heard it. It’s hard to concentrate, though, with his hands on me.
“What do you think?” I ask, my fingers curling around his ass as I inch closer to telling him why I gave in.
Fitz shakes his head. “I think that’s the reason why you started, but it’s not why we’re here now.”
I know where he’s headed. I ought to steer this conversation in a safer direction, but I can’t seem to resist this path. I want our motives to be out in the open.
“What’s the reason you’re here, then?” I ask as I kiss his neck, nibbling and biting.
Fitz breathes out hard, rocking his hips against me. His moans grow louder as I kiss his jawline, his cheek, and then nibble on his earlobe, trying to tell him with my body, with my lips, with the way I kiss him that there are other reasons.
“What’s the reason?” I ask softly again. Then I bite his skin. “A pact?”
Fitz shakes his head.
“Last chance to get your rocks off?”
“You ass,” he growls.
I laugh. “You love my ass.”
“I do. I really fucking do. But that’s not why I’m here.” We’re tangoing closer and closer to the dangerous edge we’ve been resisting. I could make another joke about this crazy chemistry, and part of me wants to, because I’m having so much fun with him. But I don’t joke. This is no longer a fling. We both know it.
The man I’ve spent the last few nights with looks at me intensely, like this moment could tip into something much more than an interlude or an affair. Maybe it already has.
