Page 16 of The Bratva’s Stalked Pregnant Bride

As quickly as he puffed up, Mik relaxed again. “You know about my brews?”

The owner of the Dog and Kettle waved his bartender over, who peeled ten dollars out of his tip apron, but the owner waved it away. They were both excited to meet Mik, speaking in a rush and name-dropping different beers. Mik almost glowed and looked more like an ancient deity come to life than ever as he settled into his element.

“It’s not easy to get,” the owner complained after they made some unspoken pact about five minutes in that they were now all best friends. “The Zabava was such a hit, but it was a fluke we were able to get any at all, and then it was just gone.”

“It was an experiment,” Mik said. “Named after my great-aunt. We like to do limited editions.”

“Well, hook me up as a supplier if you ever decide to expand more in the US,” he said. “And congrats on winning the Euro Grand Tasting last year.”

“You’re famous,” I marveled when they got back to work.

“That’s the first time that’s happened,” he admitted, then grinned, rightfully proud. “So that’s what it took to impress you?”

“Ha,” I said. “Like you’ve been trying.”

He rolled his eyes, and we decided to move to a table and order some food with our second round. We got jostled by some people getting up to dance on the small dance floor near the jukebox, and once again, there was that quick tensing of all Mik’s muscles before he relaxed. More of an instinct than a conscious decision.

“I thought you were going to fight the owner when he came up to us,” I teased. “As hard as you try, you haven’t been in California long enough to have enemies.”

His face briefly darkened before his grin came back. “Oh, you don’t know how hard I try.”

He was joking right back at me, and it felt good to be able to get some of my frustration out, all while having fun. And I realized I was having fun. The music was rollicking, everyone around us was in a good mood, and the dance floor was getting more packed.

Nobody cared who was watching them as they swung around with their partners, rushing to get close when a slower song came on. I looked around, perusing the crowd, not seeing anyone I knew, and relaxed even more. Mik and I tried bits of conversation, and I learned a little about his brewery, but the music was too loud, and we gave up, content to toast each other and enjoy the atmosphere.

After some chicken wings and before Mik decided on the third round, he nodded toward the dance floor with a question mark in his eyes.

Rich cheese platters and chicken wings drenched in spicy ranch weren’t what I was used to eating, let alone two dark, foamy beers. Getting up and moving around was just what I needed. It was a hard-hitting song about trucks and guns and wild women, and Mik pulled me up close against his chest before swinging me back out again.

Stop being so clumsy. Who said you looked good in that outfit? Fix your hair before you embarrass me as usual.

The voices rose out of my memory, almost drowning out the music for a moment as I became overwhelmed with self-consciousness. What the heck was I thinking putting myself on display? Who did I think I was?

Mik tugged me back, holding me close against his rock-hard chest for a moment to lean down near my ear. “You look so damn amazing.”

The cruel voices in my head retreated instantly at his low growl. Shocked, I looked up to see he meant it. His eyes roamed over me appreciatively as he swung me out again, and when he dipped me as the song ended, I was laughing. No one was watching us or judging me.

“So do you,” I said, returning the compliment since it was true.

By the end of the next song, I couldn’t remember the last time I felt that carefree. It had to be the beer. Breathless, we headed outside for some fresh air, nabbing a table near the fence. The twinkle lights barely made it that far, and the lone candle in a jar only cast a small circle of light. The music wafted out softly from inside, and before I could sit down, Mik pulled me onto his lap.

“Oops,” he said.

My instincts should have been telling me to jump up like he was made of fire, but I only snickered. “Was that a mistake?” I asked.

Continuing to sit on his lap, breathing in his cologne, I enjoyed my light beer buzz and the feel of his hands settling on my waist.

“You tell me.”

Oh boy, now it was up to me to ignore his boyish grin, the way his fingers were tightening, the heat of his palms sinking through my top. Now I should really reprimand him and move to the other chair. No, I should call it a night and demand to be taken back to the hotel.

But instead, his lips brushed against mine. Barely.

“There’s no way you’re drunk,” I said, my chest rising, one of my hands moving to his strong bicep and giving it a little squeeze.

“Not even close,” he told me.

So he knew exactly what he was doing. He wanted me on his lap, wanted to kiss me. I wasn’t really drunk either. Not really, not a lot. I could use it as the perfect excuse, though, because damn it, that teeny tiny, soft but firm kiss made me crave more.