Page 1 of Mountain Daddy

1

LILLY

Iknew the skirt was too short even before I left my apartment.

“Lilly,” my manager snaps as I pass her, balancing a drink tray. “The dress code is sexy, not cheeky.”

Her eyes linger on the curve of my ass that is flirting dangerously close to the bottom of my skirt.

I don’t even slow down as I give my faux I’m-offended excuse. “Well, it fit back in college.”

She mutters something under her breath that sounds like an “HR nightmare,” but I keep moving, and so does my skirt, riding up inch by inch. Honestly, right now I’ve got bigger problems than my tiny skirt. Like delivering drinks to Table 9.

VIP section.

Usually, the VIP section means huge tips. But around here, we all know Table 9 by another name—Bratva hangout. None of the girls want that table. You might get tipped in hundreds, but you also get stared at like meat.

These are men who don’t ask. They command.

So far, I’ve been lucky. Since I started three weeks ago, I’ve never had to do VIP service.

Well, my luck’s run out. Trish, my manager, thinks I’m ready. When I walked in earlier today, she handed me the dreaded slip with a cunning little smirk and said, “You’ll do.”

I’ll do?Rude.

Now I’m stuck in my college-era mini skirt that screams “clubbing hottie”—or, let’s be real, more like “hot-mess”—and hasn’t seen the light of day in half a decade.

I can ignore Trish’s “you’ll do” comment, but the breeze on my ass cheeks? Not so much.

I wiggle my hips, hoping the damn skirt stops riding up, then with a nervous strut, I round the corner, heels tapping like gunshots, and instantly regret every decision I’ve ever made.

Because he’s sitting there.

Alone.

Table Nine. Bratva Hangout.

Back corner.

Black-on-black suit. Night black hair slicked back like a fallen angel. Tattoos crawling up his neck.

He lounges like he owns the air itself, one arm draped lazily over the back of the velvet couch.

And those eyes?

Tiger eyes. Green.

Predator.

Tracking.

Locked on me.

The tray wobbles in my hands. I refocus. Don’t drop it. Don’t stutter. Don’t faint.

My pulse is beating so hard I feel slightly light-headed. My throat tightens. And I’m already sweating in places I should not be sweating.

I try to hold it together. Focus on the tray, the low lights, literally anything other than the devil in a suit watching me like he already knows how this ends.

---