Page 8 of Brutal Reign

He doesn’t pull this crap with Chloe; his attention is reserved for me. But Chloe always has my back, and she does her best never to leave me alone with him.

“Good news,” my friend announces, sliding off the counter with a theatrical flourish. “He texted earlier, saying we’ll need to lock up because he’s not coming in tonight.”

I exhale, tension I didn’t realize I was holding loosening in my chest.

“Halle-fucking-lujah.”

She winks. “You can say that again.”

With game time approaching, Chloe saunters off toward the end of the bar to flick on the telly. While we finish the prep, she launches into stories about her latest conquest. He’s some artist she met at a gallery opening, apparently dumb as a doornail but blessed with a “magic tongue.”

Sometimes I envy how carefree she is, how she can live in the moment without the weight of her past on her shoulders. She’s always asking why I never go out clubbing with her, and I make excuses about being tired or skint, but the truth is I can’t risk being seen or photographed.

With the football match starting, the hum of voices builds as the after-work crowd trickles in. Nigel, one of our regulars, ambles in first. He’s a short, balding bloke in his fifties with kind eyes and roughened hands from his years in construction.

“Alright, loves,” he says, settling onto his favorite stool at the bar. “I’ll have the usual, and maybe a bowl of those spicy peanuts if you have them?”

Chloe slides a bowl across to him from the counter.

“It’s gonna cost you extra,” she teases, even though we have this exact exchange every Friday and never charge him. We’re not supposed to give out the spicy nuts for free, but we make an exception for Nigel.

The pub starts filling up as kick-off approaches. As usual, it’s mostly men: construction workers, office types, a few uni students nursing single pints to make them last. They’re all gravitating toward the massive telly mounted in the corner, pulling up stools and claiming their usual spots.

I’m halfway through pouring another round of lagers when the door swings open. I happen to look up just as a man I’ve never seen before walks in.

I blink.Damn.

He’s tall. Like, really tall. Well over six feet. I’d feel tiny beside him even in heels. Broad-shouldered in a way that suggests serious time in the gym, not just good genetics. A baseball cap is pulled low over his brow, casting shadows across his face, but what I can see is impressive. A strong jawline, nicely shaped lips, and when he turns his head, I catch a glimpse of sharp cheekbones.

Since when do I notice a man’s cheekbones?

He’s dressed too well for this place. Dark jeans, a black Henley that hugs his defined chest beneath his jacket, and a pair of expensive trainers. He doesn’t look like the usual sort who stumbles in here after work.

He scans the room with a careful attention that sends a flutter low in my belly. When his gaze locks on mine, everything else fades, and a jolt of electricity shoots down my spine. Hiseyes are pale gray, the color of storm clouds, and there’s an intensity in them that catches me off guard.

He’s the one to look away first, glancing around before choosing a seat at the quieter end of the bar, away from the television crowd.

I deliver the lagers I poured, trying to keep my hands steady, then ring up the last order at the till. I’ve just finished the transaction when Chloe sidles up and elbows me in the ribs.

“Did you notice that hot-as-fuck Viking who walked in?” she whisper-hisses, barely containing her excitement.

“Viking?” I keep my eyes focused on the register.

She looks past me, checking him out with no shame whatsoever. “Yeah, there’s something Viking-y about him. Tall, blond, and built like a bloody Norse god. And he’s staring at you.”

I snort and point to the telly above my head. “You may have noticed I’m standing directly beneath the match.”

But when I sneak a look his way, it’s true. He’s staring at me, and not in a casual waiting-to-order way. His cap is off, revealing thick blond hair that’s slightly tousled, and the way he’s leaning his forearms on the bar makes his biceps bulge.

I quickly look away, a flush prickling beneath my skin.

Chloe lifts her brow in an I-told-you-so expression. “See? His eyes are glued to you. When’s the last time someone that fit came in here?”

“Never,” I admit.

“Right, so you’re going to march over there and take his order,” Chloe announces like it’s already decided. “Flirt with him, properly. Lean in a bit, smile like you mean it, maybe even touch his arm when you laugh.”

“Christ, Chloe, I’m going to serve him a drink, not proposition him.”