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It also wasn’t the first time she had been told that line, either. Except there was something about the way he said it and how his tone dipped at the end. Like his gaze roving down her throat when his tongue peeked out to lick along the seam of his bottom lip.

“Hey, are you gonna get us a fucking drink or—”

The bartender held up one large hand to the left, his palm stopping all of two inches away from the face of a beefy guy leaning across the bar top. “I’m only mixing for front tables tonight—fuck off to the other side of the bar before I move you there.”

Gigi grinned.

He hadn’t taken his eyes off her.

“I’m Gigi,” she said.

He opened his mouth to reply, but the announcer standing at the DJ’s booth just a few feet away from the boxing ring stopped him from saying anything at all when the man’s voice filled the speaker. His attention drifted to the man as he straightened up to his full height, allowing him to easily stare over the crowd of people.

“Next fight—Lev Arsov versus Draven Kinley. Ten minutes to start—one ten-minute round. Betting begins now.”

His gaze came back to her, sharper and sexier than ever. This time, that grin of his was a little more sinful and tempting.

But also dangerous.

“Looks like I’m up next.”

Gigi’s head snapped to the side, and she was sure her face reflected the shock radiating through her gut in that moment. He was just a bartender, right? “What?”

He winked. “Lev Arsov—that’s me. Stick around, Gigi. See what happens next.”

And what might that be?