Page 9 of A Guy Walks Into My Bar
Dean: Has anyone ever told you that you’re evil? Pure evil. Also, completely wicked too.
Maeve: Only you, ever since uni. Also, I’m soooo going to win. You think you’re ice, but I know you.
Dean: Impervious is my middle name. Now, what’s on your wish list, O Wicked One?
Maeve: See if you can find us some cool specialty food and drink options. I’ll send you a checklist. Also, you should be on the lookout, too, for anything American. Foreign is an especially good sell. You know how HOT American goods are. Or should I say H-A-W-T?
Dean: I am a man on a mission tonight. Radar has been recalibrated to trip you up, witchy woman.
By the time I reach the expo at the edge of Bankside, the crowd’s buzzing around the different stalls. I check them out, swinging by a booth with CBD-infused alcohol, another with vegan bar food, but nothing entices me.
The next stall features an old-fashioned jukebox, fifties tunes warbling from the speakers.
I snap a picture of it and send it off to her, along with a new text.
Dean: I’m sure you would have loved this baby. Too bad you’ll have to buy me the pool table instead.
I’m still chuckling to myself when I look up from the phone and spot a familiar set of shoulders.
Maybe I’m seeing things at the end of the row.
Maybe he’s just the one I wish I were seeing.
The same one who invaded my thoughts so damn inconveniently after I went home last night.
But when he turns around, I’m certain it’s the frustrating American.
And he looks even better than he did last night.
5
Fitz
This boozy festival wouldn’t be my first choice to spend a Saturday afternoon in London. Checking out the Tower or kicking back on a riverboat cruise is more my speed for vacay.
But Emma insisted, saying getting the local feel would help her settle into the city, and this is local as hell, here in a neighborhood that feels very Old Blighty.
“So, after this, I think I’ll head over to that used bookstore we passed earlier and see if they have the books I need for my art history class,” she says as we pass a stall advertising bar art. “Plus, the vibe was so Notting Hill. Maybe I’ll meet my own Hugh Grant.”
“You don’t want your own Hugh Grant. He’s so old now.”
Emma laughs, ponytail bouncing as she walks ahead of me. “I meant a young, cute Hugh Grant. Obviously. And don’t act like those accents don’t charm the hell out of you.”
“Guilty as charged. Or charmed, I should say.”
“Indeed.”
“And listen, I’m all for you finding a younger Hugh Grant, but you don’t have to buy your books used. You can just get the full-price ones.”
“Yes, but I’d rather support a cool local business. Besides, just because you have the money now doesn’t mean we need to spend it.”
Of my three sisters, Emma’s always been the most direct. Maybe it’s because she’s the baby of the family, but she has never had any problem telling me exactly how she feels about something, especially when it comes to money.
“I’m just saying that we don’t have to be so frugal all the time,” I say. “Old habits die hard, but you can afford to splurge a little. I want you to, Ems.”
Emma’s blue eyes soften a little. “I’d say me getting to go to the art program of my dreams is a splurge. And for that, James, aka NHL’s top D-man, I’m extremely grateful.”
I give her shoulder a little nudge as we walk. “Don’t mention it. Nobody deserves to be there as much as you do. Plus, now you can live in the National Gallery like you always said you wanted to do.”
“Mark my words. You’ll find me camped out by the Vermeers someday,” she says as she makes a beeline to check out a stall that’s offering free mini sliders.
I love seeing Emma like this. She’s here, and she no longer has to worry about nabbing a scholarship for grad school like she did growing up, when she knew she wanted to be an art historian and how much tuition would be.
For the last six years, I’ve been able to foot the bill, thanks to playing in the pros.
We’re all still getting used to it, all three of my sisters, my mom, and me. But nothing could beat buying a house for my mom on the beach in La Jolla, a far cry from where we grew up in Lakeside.
And hell, I’m not going to lie—it felt damn good to tell my little sister last year that she could go to England, no loan needed.
She takes a picture with her phone, then taps something into it before she grins as she catches up to me, with a “Soooo,” dragged out and kind of coy, and I know where she’s going.
