Page 51 of A Guy Walks Into My Bar
That list is getting far too long for my own good.
“Summer says you’re a smoke show,” he says, nudging me, breaking my momentary daze.
“She does? Why would she say that?”
“I showed her your picture. A different one than I sent to Amelia. I sent Summer one where you look hot AF.”
I sit up straighter in bed, intrigued, maybe even a little delighted. “You did?”
The look on his face is sheepish as he confesses, “She wanted to know what I was up to, so I sent her some pictures.”
“Ah, and did you say, ‘This is what I’m up to—banging this hot English bloke’?”
“Something like that,” he says, still clutching his phone. The look in his eyes, the sound of his voice almost makes me think he wants me to dig further, to ask what he said about me.
I don’t entirely know if I want to go down this road, but I don’t want to turn away from it either. So, with a little bit of nerves, I ask, “What did you say?”
He shows me his phone so that I can see his response.
Fitz: This is what I did today. Had the best time.
Three pictures are attached to the message—a shot of us by the Millennium Bridge, another by the Tower Bridge, and one more by the Leaky Cauldron. We look happy together, like a couple. I’m having a hard time looking away from the images.
I read his text to her a few times, and each time my chest warms a little more, and words stick in my throat. Words I want to say. Words I’m terrified of saying.
I meet his gaze. He looks like he’s waiting for something. A confirmation. A departure. Something. And none of this feels like it fits our earlier conversation on the bridge, but all of it feels necessary.
Like we’re stepping over those lines we drew again so firmly this afternoon.
Especially when I say the words that scare me and electrify me all at once. “Same. Same for me. I had a great time too.”
His shoulders relax, and his grin ignites. “Then Summer said you were a smoke show. And I said, ‘Trust me, I know. He’s the hottest guy I’ve ever met.’”
I laugh, shaking my head, even though inside I’m preening from the compliment. “I bet you say that to all the guys.”
Fitz props himself on his side, his head resting in his hand. His lips go ruler-straight. “No. I don’t. It’d be a lie.”
I roll my eyes because that’s easier than to accept he means it. Besides, what does it matter if he’s attracted to me more than anyone else? It doesn’t—not in the scheme of things.
“I meant what I said earlier.”
“On the bridge?”
“By the Tube station,” he says, an intensity to his voice. “I meant it all. And yes, I meant what I said on the bridge earlier too.” He stops, sitting up, dragging a hand through his hair. “Fuck,” he mutters.
I sit up too, some self-preservation telling me maybe it’s time to go. My fight-or-flight is kicking in.
“Don’t go.” He reads my mind, grabbing my arm.
“I’m not going to leave,” I lie.
“I meant what I said on the bridge, Dean. I don’t do relationships.” He exhales heavily. “But I meant what I said outside the Tube station too, about wanting to see you. And I meant what I said to Summer. I meant all of it.” He lets go of my arm, grabs my hand again, and threads his fingers through mine. “But the thing is . . .” He sighs. “I really like you.”
Fitz shrugs, a little helpless. A little aimless.
And a whole lot endearing.
And so damn likable.
That’s the problem. When he says these things, my heart thumps the slightest bit harder. I wish I could say it was from the exertion, from the sex, but that was a while ago. This is just from talking.
That’s why my heart is hammering—because I feel the same way.
And there’s no room in my life for this.
But I don’t have to rearrange my life for him. All I have to do is rearrange the next three nights and two days.
I squeeze his hand back harder. I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but I can’t quite believe I feel it this soon. Or at all. “I like you too,” I say, then give him a matching what can you do shrug.
My reward comes in the form of a tackle. He pushes me down on the bed and smothers me in kisses and laughter, and then he rolls to his back, breathes out hard, and says, “I feel like I just ran a marathon.”
“Why’s that?”
“I don’t say that. I don’t, Dean. I haven’t. But I guess it doesn’t matter. This is ending when I leave, so I don’t need to pretend you’re like everyone else. You’re not,” he says, shifting to his side again to look at me, his hand sliding down my waist, over my hip. “You’re not like any other guy. And I can say that because it’s going to be over in two and a half more days. And I want to enjoy the hell out of this time with you. But I’m not just a player. I mean, I am, I have been, though there’s a reason I’ve avoided anything serious.”
