Page 85 of Dating Goals
“You wouldn’t,” gasps Evan, clutching his chest.
“Try me,” I challenge, narrowing my eyes. “One more word about Griffin and you can play your Jass games somewhere else tonight.”
Colin raises his hands in surrender. “Fine, fine. But when you’re eighty and alone with seventeen cats, remember this conversation.”
“One more word of advice and you’re all banned for a week.”
The threat works. All three men snap their mouths shut and return to their game, murmuring quietly among themselves. I pretend to be absorbed in my work, but my mind keeps replaying Griffin’s dejected expression as he walked away. The way his eyes had pleaded with me. The way his lips had felt against mine at the gala…
Kissing a man should not feel like diving into a volcano, but here I am, three days later, still feeling the lava in my veins.
I shake my head to clear it. This is for the best. Whatever Griffin is mixed up in, it’s clearly dangerous. Those people at the gala weren’t joking. The British man’s grip had been too tight, his eyes too serious. And the woman’s whispered warnings too specific.
A sharp knock at the door makes me jump.
“For the love of—” I mutter. “He just doesn’t give up, does he?”
Läck! I am way too jumpy these days.
“I’ll handle it,” Lars says, pushing back from the table. “I’ll tell him you’ve moved to Antarctica.”
He shuffles to the door, pulling it open with an exaggerated sigh. “Nein, wir sind geschlossen.”
But instead of Griffin’s voice, I hear a different one. Smooth, cultured, and vaguely familiar.
“You’re closed, are you?” he says casually. And he understands German, apparently. “I’m looking for Anika Gisler.”
Lars’s posture stiffens immediately as the man wedges himself through the door and into the pub.
Even from across the room, I recognize the silhouette. Tall, impeccably dressed, with that same authoritative stance that had cornered me in the bathroom at the gala. The British man. Wilde.
Lars glances back at me, eyebrows raised in silent question.
My stomach drops to my feet. What is he doing here? How did he find me?
Colin and Evan are on their feet now, sensing trouble. Evan discreetly reaches for the cricket bat we keep under the bar for emergencies.
“Don’t come any closer,” I warn, grabbing a bottle of Kirsch. “I have excellent aim and zero patience left today.”
Wilde raises his hands in a placating gesture, but his eyes remain coolly amused. “I merely wish to speak with you, Miss Gisler.”
My three self-appointed bodyguards immediately form a human wall between us. Lars puffs out his chest like an angry rooster. Colin crosses his arms, looking more intimidating than a man his age has any right to. Even Evan, who cried during a beer commercial last month, has his fists clenched. These men never feel the need to come to my aid. They know I can handle drunk, handsy customers. But something about Wilde has them on high alert. Or maybe it’s what I told them about the pot cult.
“Whatever you’re selling, we’re not buying,” Lars growls.
“Gentlemen,” Wilde says, adjusting his cufflinks with casual confidence. “I merely need a moment of Miss Gisler’s time.”
“And who are you, exactly?” Lars demands.
Wilde’s smile is practiced and polite. “An acquaintance.”
Lars steps forward, planting himself directly in front of Wilde. “You will leave now.”
“I assure you, gentlemen, I’m not here to cause trouble,” Wilde says, his voice smooth as aged whisky. “I simply need a word.”
“And I need a yacht in Monaco,” Colin retorts. “We don’t always get what we want.”
I should be terrified, but there’s something oddly comforting about three middle-aged guys ready to throw down for myhonor. Still, I know Wilde isn’t leaving without saying whatever he came to say.
