Page 19 of A Guy Walks Into My Bar
“Are you my friend? Or have you switched to my foe?”
He claps me on the back as we run. “In two short years of knowing you, I’ve learned that you deliberate on everything,” he says.
I slow down as we near the edge of Jubilee Gardens. “If you must know, I was debating whether I ever wanted to play pool in your pub again.”
“And you decided Sticks and Stones is the only way to go. Very nice, my man. Very nice.” He narrows his eyes. “But I bet you’re lying.”
“Dickhead,” I mutter.
“I see you’re picking up our American lingo. Excellent.”
“We use ‘dickhead’ here in the UK too,” I point out to my friend who opened a pub a couple of years ago with his then-wife, an English woman who just put him through the wringer in a hellish divorce. But hey, he got the bar. “On account of having so many dickheads here in London,” I say as I wiggle my brows.
“Ouch. Who’s the foe now?”
“Sorry, not sorry. You had it coming.”
“That is true. Anyway, don’t tell me what you’re pondering. I’ll just imagine it’s whether you should buy new cookware or the latest political thriller.”
“The ribbing. Dear God, the ribbing.” I groan, scrubbing a hand across my face before I shoot him a look. “If you must know, I’m contemplating a hookup.”
He scoffs. “What’s to ponder? If you like the person, and the energy is there, go for it. But no clingers, K?”
“Never again.”
He points to the edge of the park and the path leading to his flat. “Come by this week. Play a round. Try not to hustle all my patrons.”
I bring my hand to my heart. “Me? Hustle your patrons? Never.”
“You’re the hustler. Catch you later, man.”
After the run, I continue my contemplation over a shower.
Though the shower isn’t the most conducive place for weighing pros and cons.
Showers, and the freedom to exercise one’s imagination, usually lead to the pro column.
Once dressed, I head to work, where, fling or no fling, I have to pay the piper.
The piper glances at me all night while she mixes drinks, giving me I know what you did this afternoon eyes as she zips past me. But it’s Saturday night, and there isn’t a moment to chat or for her to harass me until after we close.
As I tally the receipts, I lose track a few times of the final take.
Thanks a lot, Hurricane Fitz.
“Hey, earth to Dean. Are you going to help me mop?”
I look up from the laptop and meet Maeve’s gaze. She’s put up all the chairs already. “You’ve been somewhere else all night, and I think I know why.”
“Oh, do you now?”
Her smile’s mischievous. “Someone’s thinking about a certain customer.”
I laugh.
If she only knew.
Except . . . wait. She does know. I shoot her my best death glare. “You tried to trip me up.”
Maeve dares to look at me ever so innocently. “Me, who asked you to mop?”
“Yes. You. You engineered the whole thing at the expo today. You were talking to Emma last night.”
“Ohh. You know his sister’s name.”
“Yes, he mentioned her today—”
Maeve bursts out laughing. “That is soooo sweet that you know her name.”
“He was talking about her. It would be hard not to know her name.”
“And now you’re talking about her. Want to pick out monogrammed towels with him next?” She bats her lashes.
I shake my head adamantly. “Things that will never happen.”
“Fine. Maybe not towels. How about sharing shirts?”
I arch one brow at her. “You were once my friend, right? Once upon a time, like in the dark ages?”
“You pegged him as my type and tried to trip me up. That whole you’re so going down and your type bit. Serves you right that now you can’t get enough of him.”
“That is not even remotely the case.”
She points at me, glee written all over her features. “It is. So, pay up now. Did you shag him already?”
“No,” I say, shutting the laptop.
“You didn’t? I’m shocked. But you still owe me.”
I tap my chin. “Is there anything in the rules about what happens when your business partner and former best friend tries to make you lose? I mean, why else would he have shown up at some random bar expo?”
She flashes puppy-dog eyes at me, trying so damn hard to school her expression. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
I don’t blink. “Seriously? That’s the best you’ve got?” I stare her down and imitate, “I have no idea what you’re talking about . . .”
“Dean, maybe you’ve been working too much. You’re starting to imagine things. Though if you’re admitting that something happened between you and that guy . . .” She points at the mop.
I shake my head. “I’m not admitting anything. Not until you admit that you and Emma set me up. If I grabbed your phone right now, I bet I’d see a text thread about where I was at the expo today.”
