Never three. Let alone three women as beautiful and amazing as Chantal and the others. They’re basically like Black Barbies.
…and I’m the girl with chewed up nails and beer stains on my T-shirt.
I’ve barely made it a few steps before Killian’s suddenly approaching. He intercepts me by the elbow and eases me over to the side of the pub where we can have some semblance of privacy.
I’m lost for half a second… until his mouth is on mine, kissing me on the barroom floor like we’re the only two people present.
A sweet andpublic display of affection. One that lasts a couple seconds before he pulls back and brushes a curl behind my ear.
“You alright?” he asks. “You’ve been looking overwhelmed all night.”
I soften peering up at him. He’s checking in on me; he’s been watching me on the floor and snagged a moment alone the first instant he got.
Maybe Chantal and the others are right—we’re not exactly subtle, especially Killian.
A small smile comes to my lips. “Just busy. But thanks for making sure.”
“I can’t keep my eyes off you,” he admits, and my cheeks instantly flush. “So stop by my table every now and then, alright? Or I’ll come find you again.”
I’m left dazed like a schoolgirl as he strokes my cheek and gives my hip an affectionate squeeze, then he’s back off to his table with the rest of the clan.
It’s really hard to believe I’m dating a guy like Killian Rourke. Sometimes I want to pinch myself to make sure it’s real.
On paper, he’s so different from me. He’s brawny and brooding and objectively troublesome. But on the inside, there’s so much about him most people would probably never guess.
They’d be surprised to know he’s introverted and caring and probably the most modest guy you’ll ever meet.
I hover in place for a couple more seconds before reminding myself Iamon shift. I have tables to serve.
Table six asked for pretzels. Like ten minutes ago…
I head toward the back to grab a fresh bowl from the kitchenette area, my mind still pleasantly fuzzy from Killian. The fuzziness evaporates the second I round the corner and spot Bridget near the back entrance.
She’s not alone, joined by some guy I’ve never seen before.
He’s tall, with sharp features and an alabaster complexion. He’s dressed well enough to reveal he has fat pockets. They’re standing close, talking as intimately as I was seconds ago with Killian. Though I’m a few feet away, I’m able to make out the distinct sound of a Russian accent.
…I’ve spent enough years around them to be able to pick one up a mile away.
I move to back away, but my stupid burner phone in my back pocket chooses this exact moment to start buzzing.
Probably another threatening text.
I’ve been receiving so many in recent days it’s hard to keep up with deleting them. The last message was chilling enough.
You will suffer for your betrayal, Myshka.
“Crap,” I mutter, rushing to silence the phone.
Both Bridget and the man she’s with look up. Her eyes narrow into slits. She mutters something to the man and ushers him out the back door.
I slide the phone back into my pocket and turn toward the cabinet to grab a bag of pretzels.
“Were you eavesdropping?”
“Not really. I came back here to grab more pretzels.” I hold up the bag.
She folds her arms and scoffs. “Save it. I really don’t get you. Isn’t it enough that you already have Killian? Do you have to stick your nose into my business too?”
