He rolls his eyes and tosses it to me, even though I’m a foot away in this tiny space. He doesn’t have to say a word. I know we’re thinking the same thing, laughing at the same thing. We’re sharing all our shit.

Still, I just shrug as I slide it on. “What? TaskRabbit isn’t here yet with my stuff.”

His buzzer rings. “Guess it’s here now. I’ll take care of it.”

Dean unhooks the towel, lets it fall to the tiled floor, tosses me a feel free to stare look, then gives me a perfect view of his naked ass as he leaves the bathroom. I stare at him shamelessly as he grabs fresh boxer briefs and pulls them on, along with jeans and a polo.

This view. My God, I need this view in my life.

Need it badly.

I pick up his towel, hang it on a hook, then put mine there alongside his.

A minute later, he’s back with the delivery of my suitcase from the hotel. He sets it on the floor.

“Your valet,” he teases, and I open the suitcase and tug on briefs and jeans.

I look at the clock on his nightstand. It’s a little after seven thirty. Time is unwinding, but I’m going to make the most of tonight. And after today, and after last night, and after the other morning, I already have some ideas.

An agenda, if you will.

As I button a short-sleeve shirt, I imagine those things, how they might be. Things I need, things I want. Things that, even a few days ago, I didn’t think I wanted.

But now I’m pretty sure I do.

I’m pretty sure I can see them happening tonight. When I’m dressed, I catch his eye. “Want to hit the town, sexy bartender?”

“Let’s do it, cocky athlete,” he says, and we leave his place together.

When I look back at his flat before I shut the door, I have a crystal-clear image of what I’ll want when I walk back in here later tonight.

But first, food.

34

Dean

After dinner, we find our way into a night club I’ve wanted to check out.

“The drinks here are supposed to be fantastic,” I say as I order at the bar. “Classic cocktails. Good and strong.”

“Then pick something that’ll get me in the mood,” Fitz says with a wink, gesturing that he’s going to hit the men’s room while I order.

“So that’s . . . pretty much anything?”

He salutes me as he heads off. “You know me so well.”

I order the bar’s Snake Bite shot for myself, which is Canadian whiskey and lime juice, and the Godfather for him—bourbon and amaretto. I pick it because I know he’ll like the name.

I carry them toward the back and claim a circular booth as pop music emanates through the dark club. Seconds later, Fitz saunters over and slides in next to me, his hand on my thigh.

“Godfather for you,” I tell him, and he knocks some back.

“Excellent. Don’t forget, I still want your martini.”

“You’ll get it. Someday,” I say.

He takes another drink then drops his lips to my neck. “I want that someday, Dean.”

“I know you do,” I murmur as I take a swallow of my drink. It burns, as it should—a good burn.

He finishes his drink, then tells me he needs another. “Wait. I want something else. Another classic. Pick for me. Perks of dating a bartender.”

That goes to my head quicker than any alcohol. Because whatever happens tomorrow, it does feel like we’re dating.

Hell, it feels like way more than dating.

When the server swings by, I call her over. “We’d love some more drinks.”

She flashes a bright smile. “What can I get for you gentlemen?”

“He’s no gentleman,” Fitz mutters under his breath.

I roll my eyes. “Ignore him,” I tell the redhead.

She’s all pink lip gloss and straight teeth. “He’s hard to ignore. So are you.”

“Thank you. Rusty Nail for my . . .” I pause, then meet Fitz’s gaze, knowing what I say next will make the man ridiculously happy, and it’s a privilege to be able to do that. “My insanely hot date.”

She wiggles her brows. “He is.”

“And I’ll have an Irish Threesome.”

She sets a hand on my shoulder. “Excellent choice. And you’re just as hot.”

“Thanks, love,” I say, then return to Fitz as she leaves.

He stares at me with wide eyes. “‘Thanks, love’?”

I crack up. “Are you jealous again?”

He shakes his head. “No, but I’ve literally never heard you do that whole British thing—hi, love; thanks, love—and now you’re breaking it out with abandon?”

“I said it once. I wouldn’t say I’m ‘breaking it out with abandon.’”

He nods exaggeratedly. “That’s abandon, my friend . . .” He moves closer to me, even though there’s hardly room to get closer. “Also, did you get the feeling she wanted to have a sandwich with us?”

I laugh again. “I did get that distinct impression.”


Tags: Lauren Blakely Romance
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