Page 7 of One Weekend in London

Every fiber of my being screams for me to flee, the urge to bolt as intense as can be. Even as indignation floods through me and I slap the pervert’s sweaty hand from my thigh, all I want is to escape.

After I knee him in the jewels, of course.

I rise, my head turned and gaze locked on the man behind me. More than ready to teach the jackal at my side a painful lesson before vanishing into the night, adrenaline surges through me. But then, my savior’s deep voice, firm and brimming with authority, halts me in my tracks.

“Sit.”

He appears to be solely focused on the creep, but I can tell he’s still watching me from the corner of his eye.

The fact is a toe-curling one.

Especially considering, for unfathomable reasons, I can’t stop looking over my shoulder at him. Tearing my gaze from his handsome face seems impossible. That captivating draw he possesses is irresistible.

I crave his gaze to meet mine.

Like, a lot.

Without hesitation, I obey his clipped command and drop back onto the wooden, leather-topped barstool. A ghost of a smile tugs at one side of his mouth in response, confirming my suspicions that he still has me in his sights.

Cheeks heating, I manage to look away.

It’s then I notice it again—an indented line on the perv’s ring finger, evidence of the wedding band he clearly removed before approaching me.

My stomach churns, a torrent of painful memories starring Maxwell and his dirty deceit rushing forward.

Acting as a freshly clipped hickory switch, the images lash my heart, adding more cuts to its already maimed surface. I close my eyes and take a breath, centering the chaos. When I reopen them, I steal another glance at the man behind me, unable to stop myself.

A whole new sensation takes over suddenly.

One I haven’t felt in… well, a long time.

With thoughts of Maxwell no longer plaguing me, butterflies take flight in my belly, their imagined wings fluttering against my insides as I take him in, studying every inch of his face.

There’s no denying he’s downright handsome, breathtakingly so.

With his angular jaw set, he exudes strength and determination. It frames his high cheekbones perfectly, and the softness of his skin starkly contrasts with his authoritative presence.

Then there’s his hair.

Cut on the shorter side and holding a slight wave that’s styled just right, its glossy, dark brown hue reminds me of fine chocolate, giving him a sophistication that Maxwell’s arrogant behind could never come close to achieving, no matter how hard he tried.

And believe me, he tried.

But it’s those eyes of his that truly lure me in. A captivating mix of mossy green, soft gold, and Kentucky bourbon, they’re flat-out intoxicating. I swear I could stare into them all day, my breath catching as I lose myself in their depths.

I freeze at the thought.

I’ve never met this man before, don’t even know his name. I’ve hardly even heard him speak, yet here I am, fantasizing about having a lust-driven staring contest with him. All the while my belly flips and my broken heart beats all wonky, threatening to fly right out of my chest.

Apparently, I’ve lost my mind.

“No harm, no foul,” the jerk beside me says to the man standing at my back as he rubs a sweaty palm down his ratlike face.

A face I’d like to see violently rearranged. What can I say? I’m a Winslow. I may not be hot-tempered like some of my male cousins, but regardless, we’re known for being a bloodthirsty bunch when one of us is wronged.

Maxwell can surely attest to that.

“I was just—”

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