Resisting Mr. Kane (London Mister #2)(7)

Megan comes up behind me as I’m pouring shots of Sambuca. “Are you going to have sex with him?”

“Shush, Megan!” I hiss at her and look over to see if he heard. If he has, he pretends not to. “Of course not. Talk about going from A straight to Z.”

“Why, of course not? He’s hot. No-strings-attached sex. You need to loosen up. You’ve had one dick in three years and before that it was limp pickings.”

Barely even that, I think to myself. “I can’t have sex with some random guy just because he’s hot. Besides, think about logistics. I can hardly take him back to our cockroach-infested studio, can I?”

She purses her lips. “The beach then. Loads of people do it on the beach.”

I laugh loudly. “No, Megan.”

She grabs my shoulders and gives me a little shake. “Elly! This is what this summer is about. We have years to be reserved and boring. Take your chance.”

I open my mouth and close it.

“Come on,” I say in a lowered voice as I set the sambuca on the bar. “The guy must have women falling at his feet. Look at him. He’s just being polite because I helped him.”

She rolls her eyes dramatically. “Oh please, you don’t believe that for a second. Everyone is looking at him and he’s looking at you. If you don’t make a move, don’t complain to me for the rest of the trip. There’s a gorgeous man, by far the hottest bloke in this bar, no scrap that, the hottest bloke on the Greek islands who is expressing an interest in you and the best you can do is give him doe eyes?”

I bite my lip suppressing a smile. I should be used to Megan’s no-nonsense attitude to men by now. She’s right. Would it really be so bad to enjoy myself tonight? To just offer myself up to a gorgeous stranger for no-strings-attached sex? I’ve never actually had a one-night stand before. Not because I was averse to them, I just haven’t met anyone I wanted so badly that I needed to rip their clothes off within twenty-four hours.

My last relationship was a three-year thing with John, a guy I met at university. Sex with John was rigid and a bit tense. He seemed to have learned sex from a rulebook, then would mix it up between chapters. His signature move, where he spread my legs, dived his head in and performed something akin to a motorboat on my vagina, was more ticklish than sensual.

It took me a long time to realise we had floated into the friend zone and I’d stayed with him way longer than either of us deserved.

So, I wholeheartedly agreed with Megan that I had to make up for lost time. I just wasn’t sure if I had the guts. In my head, I'm a siren with a love life worthy of a porn channel. However, the reality is that I had a love life as limp as a dick in a freezer.

The bar gets busy, and I spend the next hour serving shots so I don’t have time to debate my intentions with Tristan. Every so often, I gravitate back to him. Shockingly he doesn’t leave. I even manage to pull a few more laughs from him. Whatever has happened to Tristan, it’s been a bad day.

At midnight, the crowd empties out to go to the local nightclub. Jonas puts me on floor-mopping duty as punishment for pouring more alcohol on the floor than in the glasses. I’m just about hanging on to the job.

My eyes flit from the floor to Tristan as I mop up the spillage. He puts his phone and wallet in his pocket ready to leave. Do something, fool! Talk to him. Give him your number.

Then he looks up, catches my gaze, and smiles.

I rush over like an eager beaver.

“I gotta go. It was nice to meet you, Elena.”

I telepathically beg him to ask me out. “You, too, Tristan. I’m sorry your day was so bad.”

“It brightened up at the end.”

Ask me out, ask me out, ask me out.

He opens his mouth, then closes it and raps his fingers on the bar where a napkin with cash is peeking out. “Don’t forget your tip.”

Before I can thank him, he turns and walks out of the bar. I look under the napkin. Five twenty-euro notes shine up at me.

And he didn’t touch a drop of the beer.

Damn, guy.





3




Elly

“Do you have any ID?” I size up the teenager across the bar. A gold necklace complements his tracksuit and baseball cap, and his lip is adorned with a light patchy moustache that is very distracting.

“Yeah,” he replies sullenly, handing over a UK driver’s licence. The laminated edge of the licence curls upwards where it has been tampered with and a new photo inserted over the original.

I calculate his age. There’s no way this guy is twenty-nine. “This is a falsified ID. Is this your twenty-nine-year-old brother’s licence?”

He shifts nervously. “What are you on about? It’s mine. Gimme a vodka and coke.”

“Watch your mouth, kid,” a gravel-infused voice demands from the corner of the bar.

I glance up and stare into the eyes of Tristan.

Huh, so this is what it feels like when your heart stops. Like a sexy angina attack.

He came back.

Tristan breaks our gaze to glare at the young bloke. The guy sizes up Tristan’s hulky stature, glances over at his mates, and decides it’s not worth the effort. He walks to the other side of the bar to repeat his pathetic attempt at getting served.

“You’re back,” I say in a high pitch. The goofy smile sweeps across my face before I can restrain it.