Chapter 11

11

I’d like to say I don’t flirt, but it’s too hard to resist.

When I find Truly ogling shelves of shot glasses, I point to the floor. “I believe I was told you’d be on your knees. ‘Genuflecting before the glasses,’ wasn’t it?”

“It’s called a metaphor. You use it to creatively express how you feel about something.”

“Let me creatively express how much I was looking forward to seeing you on your knees—like a die-hard Yankees fan looks forward to spring training.”

“Good one, since I do enjoy the arrival of spring training.”

“Thought you might like that. Want to tell me the story again of how you met Mariano Rivera?”

“Are you saying I’ve told you that story too many times?”

“Oh, no. Never. I hardly remember it. Was it after the game one Sunday afternoon, and Charlotte snapped the photo by the third baseline?”

Truly arches a disdainful brow. “See if I ever invite you to a game again.”

“Please tell it to me once more. I can hear it for the ten thousandth time.”

“I’m literally never sharing someone else’s season tickets with you ever.”

“You will. You totally will.” I shift gears, pointing to the glasses. “Have you ever collected anything? Like shot glasses or license plates or aprons?”

“Nah, I don’t really like things. I suppose, technically, I collect pancake recipes. But I keep them up here.” She taps her skull.

“That is worth collecting.” I pause, picturing what I might amass if I had that itch. “If I were a collector, I’d go for typewriters.”

“Typewriters?”

“Those things you use to write on? They have little keys with the letters of the alphabet on them.”

“Ohhh. I was wondering what those were.” She picks up a wineglass and runs her thumb along the stem. “Do you really write on a typewriter? That’s so quaint.”

“God, no. I’d have to become a registered hipster if I did, and I’m not ready to move to Brooklyn yet. Come to think of it, I don’t own skinny jeans either.”

“Let’s keep it that way.”

“All right. Stop distracting me with talk of pancakes and typewriters. Why aren’t you on your knees?”

She taps me lightly on the chest with the rim of the glass. “Because you can’t have everything.”

“Don’t I know it.” I gesture to the overwhelming array of stemware lining the shelves—glasses for wine and martinis, for margaritas and champagne. “What are you shopping for?”

She shrugs happily. “Nothing and everything. By which I mean, I’ll know when I see it. But if I don’t check them out, how will I find that perfect new glass that tempts a customer? Gabriella’s the same. She actually sent me a list of new glasses she’s been coveting.”

She grabs her phone and shows me a text.

Gabriella: You must get Nick and Nora glasses. I both beg you and insist on it. They are sooo cool and so tren-day. Also, some V-shaped martini glasses for me? They make me happy. Pretty please!

“She’s enthusiastic.”

“That’s why she’s a keeper, and that’s why I want to move her up. She might love glasses as much as I do. After all, every drink needs the right glass. I’ve been in love with picking glasses and making drinks since I was a kid crafting the coolest mixes for my lemonade stand.”

“Seriously? You made fancy lemonades for sale?”

“Hell yeah. I hustled my ass off on the streets of the West Village, selling honey lemonade, red-pepper lemonade, cherry lemonade. But I mostly did it for fun. I made all sorts of concoctions growing up.”

“What besides lemonade was in your young mixologist repertoire?”

“Started with Shirley Temple, of course. Malone loved that. I tested all my creations on him, and my parents too. My dad went crazy for my Arnold Palmer. I’d set up at the kitchen counter with all the plastic cups and mismatched mugs. I’d mix sodas with syrups, and juices with other juices, and try to figure out the perfect garnish to add.”

“So you were, for all intents and purposes, always a bartender?” I ask as we wander down the next aisle, surveying sherry glasses and copper mugs.

“A businesswoman too. When I was a teenager, I made enough at my summer lemonade stand to cover my movie and lipstick budget.” She smiles, her glossy red lips shining. “I do like my lipstick.”

Oh, how I want to say, And I like kissing it off , but I’m on a flirting diet. So I focus on the non-naughty things she said. “And now you’re hoping to expand your business.”

“Yes. Let’s dive into it.” She finishes browsing the aisles, places an order with the woman who runs the shop, then we head to Prospect Park, grabbing a bench on the outskirts of the grass.

“The investor I mentioned? I pitched him on that Parisian-themed bar I want to open. He likes it, but his partners aren’t ready for that yet. So he asked me to put together a concept for a new bar, modeled after Gin Joint with signature cocktails, decor, and all that . . . but with a British theme.”

“And clearly I’m the only person you could possibly come to.”

“You are kind of my one British friend.”

“Good. Let’s keep it that way. I don’t want you accessible to any other Brits. They’re very dangerous, what with the way they speak in that sexy accent that makes American women swoon.”

She shoots me the side-eye. “You think I swoon when I hear your voice?”

“Swoon, throw your knickers at me, and want to have sex straightaway.” Maybe I was supposed to behave, but hell, it’s so damn hard with her. “It’s quite a burden to bear.”

“I thought we were trying to stay in the friend zone.”

I shoot her a you’re crazy stare. “Get your mind out of the gutter. I’m talking about the challenge of going around with this accent. Do you have any idea? Everybody wants me. Admit it. You do kind of melt a little when you hear me talk.”

“I admit nothing.”

“I’ll take that as a good thing.” I shift gears. Business now. Seriously. “Okay, so you’re using me for my pub expertise. What’s the plan?”

“What I thought we could do is this: I’ll go with you to the weddings as your fake date, and you can go with me to visit some of the pubs I want to check out. You can be my reality check, if you will. I also want to make sure the ideas I have are authentic, so I want to test them on you. I was hoping we could even start in the next day or so? Perhaps Tuesday?”

“I’m there.”

“Perfect. Now tell me about the weddings you want me to go to.”

I review the details, rattling off the basics of Chip’s ceremony, then the one for Enzo from Spain, who hired me since he’s new to the country and doesn’t know anyone yet, and another where I’m simply an extra groomsman, and I’ve been asked to play the part with an Aussie accent, for no other reason than the groom finds Crocodile Dundee entertaining. The groom is a superstar skateboarder in the X Games, and I tell her my friend Josh recommended me.

“Your sports agent friend?”

“Yes. Josh Summers. Reps a couple of the Yankees, some of the Rangers, and on and on. You’d like him; therefore, I will probably never introduce you to him.”

Laughing softly, she gives me a curious stare. “Why would I like him?”

“All the women do.”

“So all women everywhere have the same taste?”

I tap my chin. “Fair point. Your taste is finer. After all, you did enjoy the ride on my?—”

Her hand covers my mouth. “Be. Good.” She nudges my elbow. “So . . . when do I meet this hot sports agent friend of yours?”

I narrow my eyes, huffing. “Never. Also, I don’t actually need a date for the skateboarder’s wedding. It’s a solo gig.”

“Really? Are you sure?”

“Positive. And for that comment, you will never meet Josh.”

She rubs her palms together. “And you will never get to see Presley, then. She’s stunning and brilliant and hilarious. So there. I’m keeping her away from you too.”

I roll my eyes. “You do know I’ve met her several times. She comes to jujitsu with us now and then, and yes, she’s quite funny.”

“Then you’re not allowed to speak with her again.”

“You’re cute when you’re jealous.”

“Ha. Same to you. But enough about hot friends. About the two weddings you need me for . . . I presume we’ll need backstories and fake names? A different one for each?”

I make a low whistle of appreciation. “Damn, you’re good. Is there a name you’ve always wanted to have?”

She adopts a high, saccharine tone. “Oh, God. I love the name Truly.” Her voice returns to dry and sarcastic. “It’s not as if I was always made fun of for my name growing up.”

“Were you made fun of for that? It’s a lovely name.”

“Most people don’t get it. They think I’m Trudy. Or Julie. Because it’s not a name; it’s a freaking adverb. But it’s fine. My parents loved it. What can you do? And I suppose I really don’t mind it now.”

“I think it’s quite pretty. And it suits you.”

She holds my gaze for a lingering moment, swallows, then sighs. “Listen, I saw my brother this morning. I told him I’m spending more time with you.”

I flinch, unsure what to make of this admission. “He knows we hang out. Why would you feel like you had to confess something?”

“I didn’t tell him what happened six months ago. I simply mentioned over breakfast that I was going to be doing this with you. I told him because this here”—she gestures from her to me —“this deal, it feels more personal than taking a class or working out together. I know we flirt and joke.”

“Wait. You flirt? It’s more like you tell me you don’t flirt.” I hold up a stop-a-moment finger. “Oh, that’s hate-flirting. My bad.”

Twin spots of pink spread across her cheeks. She looks away then back at me. “Whatever. You know I’m attracted to you.”

Those words. Attracted to you. I shouldn’t let them send a charge through me. But hell, they do, an electric jolt. She’s been so damn good at denying, evading, dodging.

But right now, she is confessing, and it’s a turn-on exactly when it shouldn’t be. And maybe because emotions are the devil but desire is angelic, I give in, brushing my fingers down her arm. “I’m wildly attracted to you.”

Her breath catches. She leans closer to me, out of the friend zone and into the more zone. Her gaze swings down to my hand on her arm. “That’s a little tempting.”

“It is.”

“Maybe too tempting.”

“I should stop.” I run my finger down her bare skin, savoring the electric sensation of touching this woman again. The air between us crackles, and all it would take is . . . well, it would take deciding to cross a line we don’t want to cross.

Lines exist for a reason.

So you don’t give in to lust.

So you don’t let your dick or your heart control you. You don’t give in to instant gratification when you have a lifetime of friendship between you.

I swallow, take a breath, find my voice again. “Are you . . . dating anyone?” I choke out the words. They taste like last week’s compost bin.

Laughing, she shakes her head. “Sounds like you’d rather I didn’t?”

I shrug, affecting a relaxed pose. “You’re free to date.”

“And so are you. But I’m not seeing anyone. I’m too busy with the expansion plans right now. Dating is not on my agenda.”

“Same here. My business, that is. Too much going on.”

“So we’re both in the same position. And we’ll stick to the plan.”

And while I’m terribly tempted to make a joke about positions, or things sticking, I resist. “I understand. I know what’s at stake.”

“I know you do, Jason, but sometimes you make it hard. The way you flirt. The way you touch me.” Her tone is earnest, full of need. It stops me in my tracks. Normally we fire zingers at each other, we toss bouquets of flirtation. But there’s something almost sad in the way she’s speaking right now, like she desperately needs me to change.

“Do I touch you too much?”

“Too much for my own good.”

Dear God. Too much for my own good. “I get that. I can stop.”

“You need to know I don’t want you to, but we probably should. Because I like this.” She points from me to her. “I like this, but not as much as I dislike the idea of losing you or hurting Malone. I like how we are. I like seeing my brother for breakfast, like I did earlier today, and for baseball games, and when he hangs out to chat after he sings at Gin Joint. I’m at a point where things are clicking in my life. The bar, the business— everything . I don’t want to feel the way I’ve felt in the past, where I’m losing the people I love.”

I have to keep things on the level for her, and for me. I’m a serial monogamist for a reason—I don’t want to be Claire’d again. Commitment and I have kept each other at arm’s length ever since I came to the States in my early twenties to take care of my dying nan. When I left England, Claire took me to the airport, teary-eyed and looking like a Nicholas Sparks heroine, saying she’d wait as long as it took for me to return. And a month later, when I was still away, she took up with the barber down the street.

“I understand,” I say. “I don’t want you to lose what you care about. Not work or your closeness with Malone. And you know my deal. I’m not keen on anything more. So it’s best this way.”

“I do. I understand that,” she says, since she’s up to speed on the basics of what went wrong with Claire.

“All that said, there’s something vital I want you to know.”

“Sure. Tell me.”

My lips curve up. “Are you aware I’ve been attracted to you since I met you?”

“Why are you telling me this now?”

Because I’m on an honesty kick, and I take my time, letting a wicked grin spread across my face. “So you know it’s something of a miracle that we’ve only ever fallen into bed once.”

There’s that sharp stare I know so well. The oh no, you didn’t look. “You’re aware that falling into bed is exactly what we can’t do?”

“Indeed. And my point is, I’ve been exercising restraint with you for a long time. I can keep it up.”

She settles in on the bench, staring at the sun, putting on her shades, taking her time. At last she responds, a smile tugging at her lips. “I suppose you can. You do have excellent stamina.”