Page 20 of A Guy Walks Into My Bar
Maeve gives a satisfied Cheshire-cat grin. “If such a text thread did exist, it’d already have been deleted.”
“You do know that’s kind of playing dirty. Getting me like that.”
She shrugs. “It’s what you tried to do to me last night. I just happen to be better at the game.” She hands me the mop. “You might as well get to scrubbing. And while you do, you can tell me all about your romantic make-out session on the streets of London. I want to live vicariously through you. Now, tell me. Was it swoon-worthy? Did he melt you? Make your knees go weak?”
“My knees don’t go weak. And I don’t melt. That’s not a thing. Plus, it was just a kiss.”
“Aha! So you admit it. Start mopping.”
With a beleaguered sigh, I grab the mop, admitting she won this round. At least this is one of the easier chores on her list of consequences. And truthfully, I’d end up telling her everything anyway.
“Give me the details,” she says as she cleans the counter. “When are you seeing him again?”
I dip the mop in the bucket. “It isn’t like that. It was just a one-time thing,” I say, though as I try that on for size, the prospect sounds awful. A few hot kisses were not enough. I want the whole hurricane, storm and all.
Maeve smirks. “Liar.”
She’s always been able to see right through me, ever since we met at uni more than ten years ago and hit it off straightaway.
“Why don’t you just date him? I mean, yeah, you’d have to buy me my jukebox. And do a hell of a lot of chores. But it wouldn’t be that bad. He’s so delish. Plus, I looked him up. He has a great rep and contributes to a lot of charities—rescue animals, cancer research, LGBTQ teens.”
I look from the spit-shined floor to her, impressed with this new intel. “Is that so?”
“Yes. He likes to give back. Which I happen to think is lovely. Along with his face,” she says playfully.
“Yes, both qualities are quite lovely, Maeve,” I say, and I mean it. His background is appealing, even though it doesn’t matter much for a fling. Still, it’s good to know he’s not a selfish prick.
“But he’s young,” I say, moving the mop around the floor. “They always want more, and more isn’t my style. The bar, the loan . . . You know how it goes—more is distracting.”
Maeve stops her cleaning, her tone softer. “You can’t look at every guy you’re interested in like he might be another Dylan.”
Except I can, and I do. “I don’t want to, but Dylan didn’t start out saying he wanted more. He started casually. How can I trust this wouldn’t be the same? That sooner or later Fitz wouldn’t start talking about love?”
I shudder at the thought.
Love makes people do stupid things. It makes them lose sight of what matters.
Maeve closes the distance between us, curling a hand on my shoulder. “But this isn’t about love, our least favorite four-letter word, my friend.” She sets her head on my shoulder and sighs. I stroke her hair briefly, knowing that she’s got her own issues with that word. When the last guy broke her heart, it took all my self-control not to knock him senseless when he walked in here and tried to make it up to her. Instead, I simply kicked him out and told him never to come round again.
“Definitely our least favorite,” I echo.
She lifts her head, erasing the temporary spate of sadness, her eyes now glinting. “It’s about other four-letter words, right? The good ones. The ones that mean fun.”
“Right, of course,” I say quickly. She’s right on that count too.
“And along those lines, how long is he here for anyway? I thought Emma said he was only in town for a little bit.”
“A week. Though I suppose five days is more accurate.” I glance at the clock as if it’s ticking down to his departure. Loudly. Insistently.
With wide eyes, she gestures to the door, shooing me. “Get on that. Now. Ride that man. Go, go, go.”
I laugh. “You want that jukebox badly.”
“Yes, but I also saw the way you two looked at each other.” She brings her finger to her tongue and touches the air, making a sizzling sound. “You two are fire. And you have plenty of time for a fun fling. Plus, think of how great the bar will look once he leaves and you get on with all your chores. Sounds like a win-win all around.”
“So I should bang him so we can have the bar done at last?”
“Yes.” Then she shifts to a more serious tone. “Look, I’ve known you for more than ten years. We set up this bet to avoid distractions, and I know you want to avoid them, but you’re also worried about being like your mum, and you’re not.”
