Page 10 of Brutal Reign
Her hair falls in loose waves past her shoulders, longer than in the photograph Maxim showed me months ago. She’s wearing a fitted black T-shirt that shows off her gentle curves, paired with jeans that hug her petite frame.
She turns, scanning the crowd with the casual attention of someone checking on her customers. But when those dark eyes land on me, the air turns charged, like a live wire sparking in water.
Jesus, get a grip.
But I can’t stop looking at her. Christ, she’s small. My hands could probably span her entire waist. The thought sends heat coursing through me, and I suddenly realize that coming here might have been a mistake.
I pull off my cap, running my fingers through my hair. When I look up, her eyes find mine again. For a split second, it feels like the air changes, tightens. She looks away quickly, a flush creeping up her neck.
Good. I’m not the only one feeling this pull.
A pretty redhead appears beside her. It’s the other bartender I’ve seen during my surveillance. While the redhead is all bold confidence and calculated sex appeal, Hope moves with quiet grace. She isn’t trying to be sexy; she just is.
Her workmate leans in, whispering something. Hope shakes her head, though I can feel her attention drifting back to me. I fight a smirk, pretending not to notice and checking my phone instead.
Finally, the redhead gives her a little shove toward me. Hope seems to hesitate, then collects herself. Her shoulders straighten, and she smooths her hair back with nervous fingers.
It’s fucking adorable.
When she finally approaches, I flash her a broad, disarming smile. I can be nice when I want to be.
“Hi there.” Her voice is warm, but there’s a hint of shyness beneath it. “What can I get you?”
I lean back in my chair, taking her in. Up close, she’s even more breathtaking. No makeup except for a touch of mascara and something glossy on her lips. When she tucks a strand of silky hair behind her ear, I catch a glimpse of a delicate jade pendant at her throat.
“What do you recommend?” I ask.
She glances toward the taps, then back at me with a wry smile. “Well, if you want to play it safe, I’d go with a bottle. The draft lines here aren’t exactly… pristine.”
A low laugh escapes me. “I appreciate the heads-up. A bottle it is then. Your choice.”
She grabs a local brew from the fridge below. She pops the cap, and pours it into a pint glass before sliding it across the bar to me. I can tell she’s curious about who I am. With my Swedish accent and the fact that I'm a foot taller than every other man in this place, I stand out.
She leans forward, hands braced on the bar and a sweet smile gracing her full mouth. “Anything else I can get you?”
“How’s the food here?” I ask, holding her gaze.
She wrinkles her nose. “I hate to disappoint, but honestly, your best bet’s a pack of crisps. If you’re still hungry, though, there’s a decent Indian takeaway around the corner.”
“Perfect. I’ll swing by on my way back to the hotel.”
She hesitates, a flicker of curiosity passing across her face. “Not many hotels around here. What brings you?—”
Her question gets drowned out by a roar from the crowd as Chelsea’s keeper dives and misses, letting Arsenal score. Someone yells about a bloody foul, and a handful of pints nearly spill as fans jump to their feet.
She winces. “Sorry about that. Football brings out the worst in us.”
I grin. “Don’t worry, Swedes are just as obsessed.”
Her eyes brighten—warm chocolate brown with amber flecks. “Oh, you’re from Sweden?”
I’ve used my Swedish heritage before when going undercover. People trust Scandinavians; they have a reputation for being mild-mannered and progressive, basically the golden retrievers of international relations. My mother’s bloodline gives me the bone structure to sell it, and I picked up enough language from my grandfather to fake the accent.
“Stockholm,” I say, letting my voice carry that slight Nordic lilt. “Actually, I could use some local advice if you don’t mind.”
She casts a quick look toward the bar where the redhead is covering for her, then looks back at me. When she tucks herhair behind her ear, I catch the scent of her soap. It’s clean and citrusy, cutting through the pub’s stale atmosphere like a breath of fresh air.
“I’m not a native Londoner, but I might be able to help.” She shrugs. “What kind of advice?”
