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“I forget,” I respond, smiling sheepishly instead of triumphantly. “I panicked and just made one up. Lisa Linderhagen, maybe? Is that on the list?”
There’s a quiet snort behind me, and I hope the bouncer didn’t hear it. If one of these idiots ruins the compelling tale I just conjured, I will never let them forget it. The bouncer studies me for a minute, not even bothering to glance down at his list to check for my fake name.
“All right, you ladies can come through,” he finally says, unclipping the ceremonial-looking rope barrier.
There are loud protests from those in line, but I don’t wait around to listen to them or give the bouncer a chance to change his mind. I stride through the doorway into what, I have to admit, is a pretty cool atmosphere. If Kluvberg players do hang out here, they’ve got decent taste. It’s not flashy or extravagant, but minimalistic and sleek.
“That. Was. Brilliant!” Natalie announces, bouncing in beside me.
“Seriously,” London agrees. “I feel like I should be looking around for the poor guy who fell for the ‘I’m Lisa Linderhagen’ line.”
I snort. “I’m going to grab a drink from the bar.”
“I’ll get a booth,” London announces.
“Let’s hit the dance floor.” Natalie pulls the rest of our group along with her.
The interior of the club is structured in a U shape. The bar sits to the far right, while the dance floor and DJ booth take up the left side. The bottom curve is split by the doorway, with booths lining the brick walls.
I skirt through the crowd, ignoring the glances I’m garnering. I’m not in the mood for it right now, but it’s impossible to tune out the people close to my own age, all dressed in sophisticated clothes that suggest designer labels. They all seem to be locals. Nothing but German punctuates the thumping bass pumping through the speakers.
Finally reaching the bar, I order a gin and tonic, then study the expensive bottles of liquor displayed behind the bar as I wait for my drink. There’s a muted light shining behind them that adds to the alluring ambiance.
“You’re not supposed to be in here,” a deep, male voice says.
Why is it the last person you want to see is always the one you run into? There is one guy I didn’t want to encounter in Germany—actually all of Europe.
A geographic region comprising millions of square miles.
Thousands of clubs.
One Adler Beck.
I turn to face him, which is a mistake. Adler Beck looked gorgeous sweaty and pissed off. He looks even better leaning against the bar in jeans and a gray T-shirt that clings to a muscular torso I’ve seen splashed on more magazine covers than I care to admit. He still appears annoyed. Either it’s his default setting, or I draw it out.
Or both.
“How do you know? Maybe I was personally invited by the owner,” I respond, mirroring his pose and leaning against the bar. It’s so unfair hot guys are often the assholes. Hair that blond and eyes that blue should not be genetically possible.
“You weren’t,” Beck states flatly. He’s holding a bottle of beer, and the beverage choice surprises me. He looks more like the type to sip expensive liquor from a crystal tumbler. Then again, I’m just basing that off paparazzi photos of him with models exiting cars that cost more than four years of tuition at Lancaster.
Beck sets the glass cylinder down on the black bar top made of some sort of stone. Maybe marble? Can marble be black? I took geology, also known as “rocks for jocks” as my science requirement, but I remember about as much as I do from my art history course. The smooth, lustrous surface fits with the sultry vibe. Classy and chancy.
“How do you know?” I ask, before glancing over my shoulder to check on the bartender I ordered from. He’s busy flirting with some girls farther down the bar, meaning my drink is not about to appear. Whelp, there goes his tip.
“Because I own this place.” The words are matter of fact, no hint of boastfulness.
Thank God I didn’t compliment the décor out loud. It would ruin my perfect record of not feeding his ego. “I don’t believe you.”
“Why not?” He grabs his beer from the maybe-marble surface and takes a sip.
“You don’t really look like the nightclub-owning type. Show me some paperwork.” That sounded a lot less lame in my head. I’m speaking like some sort of amateur mobster. I blame it on the fact that I never expected to see him again. And how he throws me off-balance by exerting no effort at all.
“What exactly does the nightclub-owning type look like?” Beck asks.
“Not you,” is the best response I can come up with. I would love to leave this conversation where I can’t come up with anything witty to say, but it’s fairly obvious I’m standing here waiting for my drink, and there’s no cocktail to be seen.
“Is that a compliment or an insult?” The barest hint of a smirk appears, which makes me think Beck might be aware of the fact that I’d very much like to walk away right now.
