The interior of the club is structured in a U shape. The bar sits to the far right, while the dance floor and DJ booth take up the left side. The bottom curve is bifurcated by the doorway, with booths lining the brick walls. I skirt through the crowd, ignoring the glances I’m garnering. I’m not in the mood for it right now, but it’s impossible to tune out the people close to my own age, all dressed in clothes that hint at designer labels. And they all seem to be locals. Nothing but German punctuates the thumping bass pumping through the speakers.

Finally reaching the bar, I order a gin and tonic, then study the expensive bottles of liquor displayed behind the bar as I wait for my drink. There’s a muted light shining behind them that adds to the alluring ambiance.

“You’re not supposed to be in here.”

Why is it the last person you want to see is always the one you run into? There is one person I didn’t want to encounter in Germany—actually all of Europe.

A geographic region comprising millions of square miles.

Thousands of clubs.

One Adler Beck.

I turn to face him, which is a mistake. Adler Beck looked gorgeous sweaty and pissed off. He looks even better leaning against the bar in jeans and a gray t-shirt that hugs a torso I’ve seen splashed on more magazine covers than I care to admit. He still appears pissed off. Either it’s his default setting, or I draw it out.

Or both.

“How do you know? Maybe I was personally invited by the owner,” I respond, mirroring his pose and leaning back against the bar. It’s so unfair hot guys are often the assholes. Hair that blond and eyes that blue should not be genetically possible.

“You weren’t,” Beck states flatly. He’s holding a bottle of beer, and the beverage choice surprises me. He seems more like the type to sip expensive liquor from a crystal tumbler. Then again, I’m just basing that off paparazzi photos of him with models exiting cars that cost more than four years of tuition at Lancaster.

Beck sets the glass cylinder down on the black bar top made of some sort of stone. Maybe marble? Can marble be black? I took geology, aka “rocks for jocks” as my science requirement, but we didn’t cover bar top construction. Regardless, the dark, lustrous surface fits with the sultry vibe emanating from each corner. Classy and chancy.

“How do you know?” I ask, before glancing over my shoulder to check on the bartender I ordered from. He’s busy flirting with some girls farther down the bar, meaning my drink is not about to appear. Welp, there goes his tip.

“Because I own this place.” The words are matter of fact.