Page 42 of A Guy Walks Into My Bar
Emma: Yes, enjoy his company at Tower Bridge. That’s sooooo something you’d do with a hookup.
Fitz: Emma . . . I can see you have hearts and arrows in your eyes, but rest assured, this is just a good time. That is all.
Emma: Right . . . and on that note, I have a full afternoon of orientating. I’m not really done in thirty. I said that to bait you, and you revealed that you’re going to spend time with Dean. Ha!
Fitz: You remain Machiavellian. Goodbye, Emma. See you for dinner. BTW, you’re not into Ransom, are you?
Emma: The hella hot forward on your team with the smoldering eyes, great body, and face carved by angels?
Fitz: *facepalm*
Emma: Don’t ask a question if you don’t want to know the answer. And have fun with your new man.
Fitz: He’s not my man.
I close the text app on the little stinker and enjoy the walk through the streets, savoring the busy vibe of this city.
My man.
Please.
No one has been my man in years, not since college. Not since Marcus, and that barely counts. I mean, yeah, it hurt like hell at the time—he was my first real boyfriend.
But whatever. He wasn’t into me the same way I was into him, and that experience taught me I’m better off focusing solely on the things that matter—my job and my family.
I’ve been laser-focused on those twin cornerstones of my life ever since.
My mom worked too many jobs while I was growing up. Now, I need to take care of my family, and I won’t throw away that duty for a guy.
Any guy.
That’s why I like playing the field. I like flings. I like zero commitments.
Dean’s a fling.
Nothing more.
A no-strings-attached arrangement that I intend to enjoy the hell out of until I leave.
Then, come Thursday, this tryst in London will be behind me, and the season and my team will be in front of me.
That is all.
As I walk along the river, I check the time of my flight on Thursday.
Two in the afternoon.
Then the time on the phone.
Almost twelve thirty.
That’s seventy-four hours from now.
Fine, it’s seventy-three-and-a-half hours till I’m gone.
My muscles tense the slightest bit. But I don’t know why I’d feel any sort of frustration. I roll my shoulders to let loose some of the strange tightness in me.
There’s no need to be tense when I’m doing everything I’d intended when I walked into Dean’s bar on Friday night.
Having him.
When I look up, I see the man himself resting his forearms on the railing of the bridge, sunglasses on, watching the Thames.
Waiting for me.
My skin sizzles as I near him.
He looks so damn good—all cool and relaxed in jeans and a T-shirt that fits just right as he gazes out over the water.
He’s got AirPods in, and when he spots me, he turns, takes them out, and clicks on his phone. He gives me a grin that says he knows what I look like naked and he likes the look very much.
“Hey, you,” I say. My hand twitches and reflexively reaches out to take his.
What the fuck?
I’m not going to hold his hand.
I mentally slap my hand away, tucking my thumbs in my jean pockets.
We don’t hold hands. That’s not what this is between us.
We screw, we have fun, nothing more.
Just to prove we aren’t some touchy-feely couple, I don’t even plant a kiss on his delicious lips.
He doesn’t seem to miss it, since he smirks as he says, “Good afternoon, James.”
I shoot him a curious grin. “You’re using my first name now?”
“Thought I’d try it on for size.”
“And how’s the fit on your tongue?”
He screws up the corner of his lips like he’s deep in thought. “I think I’ll call you James when I’m mad at you.”
I laugh. “You could never be mad at me.”
“And why is that?”
“I make you laugh, and I’m good in bed.”
He tosses his head back and cracks up. “That’s all it takes to prevent someone from being cross with you?”
“What else is there?” I ask with a wicked grin. Banter is good, more like the level that Dean and I are—fuck buddies who have a great time together.
Nothing more.
“I can’t think of a damn thing,” he says. I take that as proof that he agrees, and that we’re on the same page we were yesterday when we made our deal at the world’s sexiest tea party. We set the rules, and we outlined all the expectations for this fling that ends in seventy-three-and-a-half hours.
Or, really, seventy-three hours and fifteen minutes.
I shove off the reminder of the ticking clock, since who cares? Clocks are supposed to tick, and I’ll be so damn happy when I get on that plane to training camp. All the hot hotel sex will have satiated me, and the only thing I’ll be hungry for is ice time.
