Resisting Mr. Kane (London Mister #2)(5)

When I turn to head back out, he stops on the spot, frowning. “Are you staying outside?”

“For the next fifteen minutes.” I smile. “Then we rotate. Have fun.”

With me, I plead silently.





2




Elly

I count down the minutes until it’s my turn inside. I've been watching the door like a hawk for thirteen minutes to make sure Adonis hasn't escaped. I’m not sure what I’m expecting to happen, but I don't want this guy to disappear just yet.

“Rotation time.” Megan comes up behind me with a fresh tray of shots. “How did you do?”

“Terrible.” I grimace. “Let’s just say I’m not the Pied Piper of bar crawlers.”

Mischief dances in her eyes. “That stallion you managed to pull in is sitting at the bar scowling like we’ve given him a jail sentence.”

I grin. “But he’s still here, though.”

“Every ovary in the bar is quivering.” She grins back. “I never thought I’d see the day. A triple whammy. Body, face, voice.”

“Oh, were you talking to him?” I huff. Which is ridiculous because I’ve got no claim over him.

“I asked him what he would like to drink. He told me he wanted a beer and whiskey chaser and I swear I felt it in my gut.”

I roll my eyes but I know exactly what she’s talking about.

As I enter, I see him propped against the bar, sipping a beer and looking at his phone. Megan wasn’t wrong. Around him, women perform human mating strategies, such as standing unnecessarily close to him, accidentally bumping into him while dancing, laughing and talking loudly beside him to attract his attention.

His rigid posture tells me he’s not impressed with the venue. I laugh to myself; he really does stick out like a sore thumb here.

I resist the urge to approach him directly. Priorities first. I need to secure this job.

“It’s my turn to rotate,” I shout to the guy yelling orders behind the bar.

“Hurry up,” he barks, snapping his fingers.

I scurry under the counter behind the bar, where the guy in charge is flanked by three others, all backpackers by the looks of things. “This is your scanner. Each drink has a barcode above the optic, see? Swipe the barcode, then open the till and swipe it here. Soft drinks added are a flat one euro. Keep to the left section of the bar.”

That sounds easy-ish.

I scan a sea of impatient raucous faces shouting orders. I don’t know where to start.

The intense blue eyes at the end of the bar are the ones that draw me. He shakes his head, grimacing. I smile back, flustered, mouthing I’m sorry.

I take the order from the guy who shouted the loudest, asking for ten shots of tequila. He’s the same guy that was sick outside. Flustered, I search the spirits, looking for tequila. Another bartender whizzes by carrying five drinks like she has octopus limbs. How are they working at the speed of light? Oh God, this really is an art form.

“Get a move on, love,” the tequila guy yells, leaning across the bar. He is part of a group of lads banging their hands on the bar like drums.

Fumbling, I move bottles out of the way until I find tequila. My elbow knocks a shot glass to the ground. I’m so not cut out for this. I clumsily pour the tequila, spilling more on the bar than in the shot glasses.

Meanwhile, the group of lads discuss my breasts like I have no eyes or ears. Yet somehow I feel ten times more naked when I lock eyes with the hot grump at the corner of the bar. Tequila guy grunts, hands me the cash, and takes the tray of shots.

I look over to see Adonis studying his phone, bored. Shit, he looks ready to escape.

My face heats as I walk towards him. “How’s the drink?”

“Like piss.” He exhales heavily. “I thought a beer would be a safe choice. Nope.”

A giggle accidentally escapes me. Act cool, woman! “Thanks for braving it. What’s your name?”

“Tristan,” he says after a beat.

I glance at his ring finger. No ring and no tan line either. Girlfriend perhaps? How could a guy like him not be attached?

“And yours?” he returns in his gravelly voice.

“Elena.”

His expression softens. “Nice name. It suits you.”

“Thank you.” I blush. “Would you like another drink?” Of course, he doesn’t.

He stiffens, drumming a beermat on the bar. “I was just about to leave.”

“I don’t blame you.” I smile to hide my disappointment.

A long moment passes as he stares at me with those arresting ice-blue eyes, his lips pressing together in a slight grimace. “Oh, fuck it,” he says, his voice gruff. “Give me a beer and chaser.”

“Coming right up!” I respond, suppressing the urge to whoop. “Bad day?”

“Something like that.”

I grasp the top of the pump and pull down. The beer flows out in spurts, vomiting from the nozzle. That’s not right. His eyes widen in dismay as I pump harder and more frantically.

He sucks in a breath.

“Uh…it’s not the best delivery.” I inspect the thick layer of foam on top of the beer and flinch. “I can start again if you like.” I resist the urge to tell him that this is not a reflection on how well my hands can do other activities.