Doesn’t he want to cover that scar? Maybe he likes it, the way it stops people dead in their tracks and makes them nervously avert their eyes. Maybe he even finds a certain thrill in their fear. It seems impossible that he might be a man who cowers with insecurities himself—
Not when he storms over to Jack, the server, arrogance lining every stride.
Not when they jump into conversation about an order that was late on delivery, and I sit in my chair, wondering if I’m about to make a massive mistake.
Not when Jack says something under his breath, waving an arm in my direction, and I learn firsthand how the scarred man feels about a stranger seeing him for the very first time.
The palest green eyes I’ve ever encountered fixate on me. Fixate, and don’t waver, as though that one glance has gifted him the opportunity to bare my soul and steal every last one of my secrets. Including those I plan to keep buried. A harsh breath billows over my lips as I struggle to hold my ground.
At my old job, I came across men like him frequently. Not savage men, not men with faces that could terrify small children and send full grown adults scrambling. But men who felt the need to assert their dominance, no matter the battlefield. Even Stephen, for all his public support of women, never missed the chance to remind me that he’d chosen me and not the other way around.
The only thing I miss about my ex is his eight-inch cock and even that’s forgettable. A big knob means nothing if its owner is pure shite in the bedroom.
With smooth, controlled movements, I set the folder down on the table. Then lift my chin, boldly meeting those pale eyes once more. In the center, near his pupils, the green becomes a tawny yellow, a color so unique that I feel uneasy just being under their unrelenting stare.
Devil eyes. Soulless eyes.
“Are you Mr. Priest?” I ask, sweeping my attention up to his dark hair. Despite scouring The Bell & Hand’s website for information about its owners, the About Us section was dreadfully dull beyond the basics. Dates of upcoming events. An award won here and there. A mission statement that preached the belief in an establishment that welcomes all patrons, so long as their favorite whisky is Scottish and not Irish. A joke, I suppose, but not one that does much in the way of giving up this man’s secrets.
And nothing to help differentiate the three brothers from each other aside from their names.
Guy. Saxon. Damien.
I study the man before me, refusing to quiver under his hard stare, despite the nervous fluttering in my belly, and take a wild guess that he’s the middle brother.
Saxon the Savage—it has an appropriate ring to it.
The man’s scarred lip curls. “Who’s asking?” he bites out, dismissing Jack as he faces me fully. Lord, he seems even bigger now that he’s within touching distance. He’s dressed casually in dark-washed jeans and a ribbed, black jumper that matches the hue of his hair and does little to conceal the wide breadth of his shoulders.
Jack clears his throat. “She’s wanting a job. I told her that we aren’t hirin’.” He swivels his head to scowl at me. “Which we ain’t. Hirin’, that is.”
The man steps forward and, helpful as always, I hook my foot around the leg of a nearby chair and shove it back. “Feel free to take a seat,” I say, going for humor-laden friendliness. All the better to butter him up. I need this job—no other will do.
Desperation at its finest.
Green eyes narrow imperceptibly in my direction. “I own every chair in this pub, including yours.” It’s said without inflection, and he gives me no time to think of a comeback before he grabs the chair by its back and drags it so close to mine that the wood grazes my knees. The feet clatter loudly against the floor when he roughly sets it down, and then he’s sitting—collapsing, really—and holding my ground becomes that much harder.
Savage no longer cuts it.
He is . . . he is terrifying.
My fingers curl helplessly around the edge of my folder. Don’t let him see how unnerved you are! Maybe if he weren’t only centimeters away, with his muscular thighs straddling mine, I would feel ten times more confident about putting him in his place. As it is, it takes every ounce of fortitude to lamely quip, “So you are one of the Priest brothers?” I should have looked harder for pictures of them online, done more research, but other than those few mentions in the articles I found, the Priest men might as well be ghosts. They exist nowhere and everywhere, all at once. “Saxon?” I test, hoping I’m right.
He leans forward, his inner thighs scraping my bare leg, where my skirt has ridden up to just north of my knees, and then swipes the folder from under my hand. “We’re all out of openings,” he murmurs instead of answering my question. His black hair creeps over his forehead as he skims my CV. “Although I’ll be disappointed to pass over such . . . outstanding references.”
The patronizing note in his voice sets my teeth on edge. “I’m more than capable of serving food, Mr. Priest.” I feel my nostrils flare as I stare him down. “It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to get a plate from Point A to Point B.”
He keeps his focus locked on the sheet of paper when he drawls, “No, Miss”—his finger traces my name—“Quinn, you’re right. It doesn’t.”
“Then I ought to be a shoo-in. I’ve worked in some form of customer service for my entire life.”
“If that’s the case,” he says, once more fixing that unholy stare on my face, “then hearing the word No shouldn’t be out of the norm.”
My entire body stiffens. “On the contrary. When someone like me does their job to perfection, all I hear is Yes and Let’s have more of that, please.”
The words fly from my mouth before I can regulate them—or even consider how they might be interpreted—sexual, aggressively forward—and my cheeks instantly heat like I’ve baked under the sun for hours, naked. This is a nightmare, an absolute, bloody nightmare.
“That isn’t—that’s not at all what I—”
Saxon Priest is clearly no gentleman. Instead of allowing me to wallow in my own embarrassment, in solitude, mind you, he ends my stammering with a raised brow. “The Bell & Hand isn’t that kind of establishment, Miss Quinn.”
He hasn’t just—
He didn’t just imply that I’m a . . . that I’m a—
“For that sort of work, I suggest King’s Cross instead.”
My eyes go wide.
What. A. Wanker.
Not that it matters, but I haven’t shagged anyone since Stephen. The prized land between the valleys is experiencing a years’ long drought, if you will. And even if that weren’t the case, I would never consider sleeping with a man for money.
Although money is exactly what I need right now, and it’s the only reason I’m still sitting here and not introducing him to my swinging fist.
Gritting my teeth, so hard that I swear I can hear my molars grinding to dust, I purse my lips into a tight smile. “A miscommunication. I’m here to apply for a front-of-the-house position. I can clean tables, refill drinks, that sort of thing.”
Shifting his weight back, he reclines like an animal, predatory down to its marrow but content to watch its prey feel the anxiety of the hunt. One muscular forearm rests on the table; one long leg stretches out past mine. Having effectively blocked me in, his mouth—scarred and all—curves upward. It’s wicked and uneven and lacks all signs of warmth.