Resisting Mr. Kane (London Mister #2)(3)

Megan turns to me, looking like a whore. They didn't have any red shorts left in her size so her slight muffin top hangs over the Lycra, two sizes too small. “No one’s wearing any clothes here—we fit in. Stop being a granny.”

Side by side, no one would mistake us for sisters. I’m all gangly legs and arms, more akin to an ostrich than a Victoria’s Secret model, whereas Megan is short with sexy curves and fiery red hair. With my dark hair and high cheekbones inherited from my Croatian mother, I’m sometimes mistaken on the island as a native.

The bikini bra covers more of my modesty than Megan’s. I’m a decent B cup but next to Megan I look flat-chested. A bloke once had the audacity to compare me to two Tic Tacs on an ironing board, and that was with my clothes on.

“Ready?” Megan asks in the mirror.

“As ready as I’ll ever be.”

She takes my hand and forces me out of the changing room.

While walking back to Jonas, I notice that attention to us has multiplied by a billion percent since the outfit change. No one looks above the neck. Now I’m just a headless body with bright yellow tits.

Jonas nods his approval, gives us instructions, then hands me a tray of green shots. Together with my breasts, the shots are bait.

“See you later,” I whisper to Megan, feeling needy. “Good luck.”

She squeezes my hand and I head out to brave it on the street.

Up and down the pedestrianized street, hustlers just like me compete to lure drunk tourists into bars. It’s the red-light district for bar hustlers. An Oscar-winning performance is needed here.

My bait tray narrowly escapes being tossed by two brawling boys. “Watch it, dipshits,” I hiss at them as one knocks into me.

Beside me there’s a deep grunt; I turn in horror to see I’ve spilled sticky alcohol all over a guy’s T-shirt. He’s tall and broad-shouldered, wearing a white T-shirt that moulds nicely over muscle in all the right areas. In fact, I can see the definition through the T-shirt. To my dismay his thick chest is now splattered in neon green. The baseball cap hides his face. I can’t help but wonder what he would feel like on top of me as he attempts to remove the mess I’ve caused.

“I’m so sorry, sir!”

My eyes travel up from his chest to see piercing blue-grey eyes fixated on me. Annoyed.

Oh. Wow. My breath catches in my throat.

So, this is what drop-dead gorgeous looks like. He’s older than me, maybe late thirties, forty max. Broad but with a natural bulky physique, not a gym bunny. But it’s his face that winds me – an angular jaw, strong Roman nose, high cheekbones, heavyset chin. Not to mention the most beautiful dark eyebrows framing his striking eyes.

Fuck me.

A modern day Adonis. Thank you, Greek gods.

“I really am sorry,” I stammer, taken completely aback.

“Forget it.” He speaks in a deep baritone that is laced with frustration. Like really deep. One hundred per cent sexy British gravel. It’s an English accent, but I can’t pick up on the region.

Jonas watches us from the door. “The trial's over if you don't get someone in the bar within ten minutes,” he shouts in Greek at me.

Laughing hysterically like Jonas just cracked a joke, I turn back to the hot grump who is observing me like I'm contagious. “Please don’t complain to him that I spilled a drink over you, it’s my first night working here,” I babble, being my own cock block. “My friend and I are on trial and we really need this job.”

“It’s fine, excuse me,” he says dryly as he sidesteps me.

I silently curse myself for bumping into the most handsome man I have ever seen in my life in such a humiliating situation. “Wait!” I grab his forearm to stop him from escaping. It’s warm, slightly hairy and solid with muscle. A pair of forearms that could lift you up and throw you over a shoulder with little effort. “Don’t go. Come into the bar,” I plead.

With a tight grip on Adonis’s arm, I shout in Greek to Jonas, “It’s fine. You don’t need to watch me. This guy is coming in to buy loads of drinks.”

Adonis regards me, bemused. “What did you say to him?”

I blurt out a milder version of the truth. “I said you expressed an interest in coming inside.”

“I haven’t,” he grates, prising my hand from his muscular forearm.

Mission not accomplished.

I hit him with my best sales smile. “It's the most exclusive bar in town! Amazing cocktails. Very friendly atmosphere.”

He looks at the two guys who are 'ladding it up' beside us, then back at me, raising one of his beautiful thick brows. “Sorry, I’m not in the mood,” he replies gruffly, moving away.

Jonas is still watching, with a gleam in his eye that tells me I’m close to getting the chop. Desperate, I step forward to block Adonis, pushing against a wall of hard muscle.

“Please, please, please?” I beg, in a last attempt since I’m one Adonis away from being fired. “Could you please walk into the bar? You can just leave after two minutes… If I get people over the line, I’ve done my job. Maybe you need to use the loo? You could go here!”

He stares at me, unimpressed. “You’re begging me to come into this bar?” His voice is deep and icy and makes me feel like I’m being told off. I like it.