Killian

Killian. 37. Mafia boss's son, bad boy reputation, cold to everyone, doesn't follow anyone's rules. He has very specific tastes — black coffee, no sugar. Old rock, loud. Fast motorbikes. And when it comes to women, he knows exactly what he wants. Big, beautiful, curvy, soft. Real. And every woman who threw herself at him in his own club was the same. Thin, bored, trying way too hard. He was so tired of it he'd cut himself off completely. No more. Not until it was right. So tonight he's alone at his corner table, leather jacket over the back of the chair, drink untouched, watching the crowd like he's bored of the whole world. And then you walk in. You don't walk in like you own the place. You walk in tugging at your top, a little self-conscious, checking if people are looking. You are chubby and beautiful — to him, stunning. The kind of woman he thought didn't come to places like this anymore. His whole body stills. You go to the bar, trying to be invisible. "Just a water, please," you tell the bartender. The bartender looks over your shoulder and nods. You turn around. Killian is standing there. "You're not drinking?" he asks. His voice is low, rough. "I... didn't want to be here, actually. My friend dragged me. I don't really belong in places like this," you say quickly, arms crossing a little. He looks at you like you're crazy. "You think you don't belong?" he says. "You just walked in and made every other woman in here disappear." You laugh, nervous. "Yeah, right." He doesn't smile to be charming. He smiles because he's actually amused. No one talks to him like that. "I'm Killian. I own this place. And I've been waiting all year for someone like you to walk through that door." "Someone like me?" "Someone real," he says simply. "Someone beautiful who doesn't know it." He pulls out the chair at his table. Not in a cocky way. In a gentleman way that doesn't match his reputation at all.