Resisting Mr. Kane (London Mister #2)(8)

“Elena.”

My stomach flutters. The way he says my name, it’s so intimate. I imagine his breathy moan against my ear, repeating my name over and over in a litany as he climaxes.

A smirk builds across his face as if he can read my dirty mind.

I lean across the bar full of giggles. “So, you decided this place isn’t so bad after all?”

“No, it’s even worse than I remembered.” He shudders. “I’m staying in a hotel nearby…it’s convenient.”

“Uh-huh,” I say, my throat tight. “What did you do today?”

He props himself on a stool. He looks tired. “I had business back home to deal with. Then I went for dinner at Botrini’s.”

“The Michelin star restaurant?” I’ve been dying to go there.

“That’s the one.” He shrugs, clearly not as excited as me. Probably because he can afford to dine there every night of the week. “Have you been?”

“No.” I laugh. “We’ve been eating gyros from a beach stand most days. Even sometimes for breakfast,” I admit.

He shudders. “Food from the street?”

“You make it sound like I’m rummaging in dustbins… You can’t only eat high-end food everywhere you go. Trying street food is part of the local experience.”

“I can only eat high-end wherever I go.”

Asshole.

“I eat anything,” I announce, wondering where I’m going with this.

His eyes crinkle at the corners. “Glad to hear you are so adventurous with what you put in your mouth.”

Embarrassment spreads from my face down to my neck. I’m not on my A game here. “Did you have company at dinner?” I ask casually.

“No, just me.” It’s all he offers.

I open my mouth to say something, then stop. What’s his deal? He’s clearly not here with a wife or girlfriend. He doesn’t appear to be having a good time by himself.

A crowd sweeps in from the street, and I reluctantly move along the bar, trying to keep up with the shouting of orders. Bartending is not my forte. Doubled up with his presence, I’m extra jittery.

He came back. He’d rather stick knives in his eyes, but he came back!

With the grace of a baboon, I move around the bar, knocking over glasses and serving shit cocktails. I’m hanging on to this job by a bikini thread but how can I focus on anything other than the visual and auditory delight in the corner?

Calm down, Elly. Pull yourself together.

Jonas puts me on floor mopping duty when the crowd begins to thin out. Out of my peripheral vision, I see Tristan putting his wallet in his jeans pocket.

Shit. He’s escaping again. This is my last chance.

I decide that his corner of the bar has a particularly dirty floor and needs extra attention.

“I’m leaving now,” he says when I’m in earshot.

“Sure, it’s late,” I reply. Don’t go. Stay. Ask me out. Do something. Anything!

He rises from the bar stool, and I flash him my brightest smile. “Good night, Tristan. It was lovely to meet you.” As much as I want to barricade him with the mop, I restrain myself.

He nods, walks a few steps, and then stops. “Are you walking home by yourself?” His brow furrows. “I see your friend isn’t here tonight.”

“Megan has a hangover,” I explain, my heart thumping at the thought of where his line of questioning is leading. I had to convince Jonas she had something contagious so she wouldn’t get fired on day two. “I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

“Can I walk you home?” he asks. “I’m not trying to come on to you,” he adds quickly. “You can’t walk home by yourself dressed like that.”

I give him a twisted smile. “I change before I walk home.”

“Still.” He raises his eyebrows. “Well?”

“Yes, Tristan.” I laugh nervously even though it’s not funny. “You can walk me home.”

Forty minutes later, I change into my jeans and a T-shirt and examine my underwear. I'm wearing a soft cotton bra and underwear set designed for comfort, not sex, damn it. What am I even saying? I'm not having a one-night stand with this strange Adonis of a man, no matter how much I’m craving it. Besides, logistics will force the situation. Megan and I share a bedsit with two single beds, and the last thing I saw when I left was Megan sprawled over her bed whimpering about becoming teetotal.

As Megan said, no one is getting nooky on this working holiday unless it’s on a beach.

When I head outside, Tristan is leaning against the wall across the street. In a few steps, he closes the gap between us. He’s been out here waiting for twenty minutes while I finished up.

His eyes blaze as he takes in my new outfit. “Better.”

I’m in a world of trouble here. I look at this guy and want hot-ass sex.

“You’re stunning, Elena.”

“Hardly.” I snort. “But it’s better than the uniform.”

The streets are littered with drunken teens taking inconvenient naps on the pavement and impatient moped riders trying to swerve around them. It’s like Night of the Living Dead.

To me, it’s the most romantic stroll of my life.

I feel his hand slide down my lower back as we amble through the streets. Heat spreads up my spine. It’s distracting.