CHAPTER 1
Alina
“If you tell me one more time to move,Iwill moveyou.” I point my finger in the man’s face. Sure, he’s a bouncer thrice my size and blocking me from getting into the club, and I may or may not have drunk too much, but that’s precisely why I’m certain I can take him on.
But now I’m sobering up.
Because of this asshole.
“You go! Go and tell the owner who you’re not letting in,” I scream at him.
He crosses his arms over his puffed-out chest.
I want to kick him between the legs, hard.
But then the small voice of reason in the back of my mind reminds me that assaulting him might give me a night behind bars. I’m not really in agreement with that voice right now though.
But what else can I do? I stare at the badge clipped to his pants pocket that identifies him as security. It reads “Wilson.”
More like “Asshole.”
“Fucking hell,” I mutter as I reach into my bag and begin pushing shit around to find the invite. I swear I threw it in here, though I may have thrown it away.
I’ve been in England for almost a year—beautiful London. And while I don’t plan to stay permanently, I couldn’t pass up the opportunities that came with moving here, and I’ve come to love living here—except for moments like this with assholes like Wilson.
I shoot him the evil eye as I messily search through my belongings.
I design layouts for clubs and make them… more unique, like the club that this asshole is currently barring me from. I’m the designer. And tonight is the opening night. I didn’t plan to come, but the owner sent me an invite, and I had one too many glasses of wine after work and decided to actually show up. I tend to make it a thing to only visit the clubs I go to once or twice. I don’t know why; I think maybe it helps keep my creative juices flowing to seamlessly move from one project straight to the next. I see something and thinkI can make that better.What can I do differently here? How can I leave my mark?
Next time, however, perhaps I should suggest to the owner to not hire such assholes as security.
I hiccup as l finally feel what I hope is the invitation. When I go to pull it out, someone bumps into me from behind and my phone falls from my other hand.
Is it fuck over Alina night or what?
When I look up, a man is standing casually with his hands in his pockets. The first thing I notice are the bluest eyes I have ever seen as he looks me over. He kicks up an arrogant smile, forming a single dimple, as I blatantly stare at him. And I remind myself that even when drunk it’s not okay to so obviously drool over a man. They don’t need those kinds of confidence boosters.
“Come in, sir,” the bouncer welcomes him.
Are you fucking kidding me?
I see red. Mister blue eyes bends down, picks up my phone, and hands it to me while the arrogant smile never leaves hislips. I swipe it from him, seriously wanting to wipe that smug expression from his face.
“Most women would say thank you. But who am I to teach etiquette to a stranger?” he says with a thick British accent. My jaw drops and, for the first and probably only time in my life, I’m speechless. He casually shrugs as he goes to walk past the bouncer.
“You just let him in. What, does he, like, fuck the owner or something?” I’m fully aware I’m yelling now and everyone around us can hear me. But I’ll be fucked if I’m just going to be pushed around like this.
Mr. Blue Eyes scrunches his nose, as if torn as to whether he should keep walking or not, but he stops long enough to shoot me a patronizing glare. No, it’s not the stare that infuriates me, it’s that fucking smile. “I’m no bouncer, but I imagine even if you did have an invitation, there’s no way you’re getting in. You’re clearly intoxicated,” he says in his thick accent.
“And you’re clearly an asshole, but apparently they don’t discriminate for that,” I say as I flip him off.
It looks like he bites the inside of his cheek and steps out of the way as a woman comes through the front doors.
“Alina.” Maria, the owner of the club bounces out, shocked, as she eyes the bouncer. Mr. Blue Eyes seems to have vanished into the club. “What are you doing out here?” she asks, and waves for me to come in. I point to her bouncer with a perfectly manicured nail and narrow my gaze.
“I’ve been telling this man I was invited, and he has persisted that I should remain outside and freeze.”
“She’s drunk,” he accuses.