Hope
Of all the ways I think my Saturday night might go, getting cornered at the game area by a girl who fucking looks at me like I've stolen her favorite boyfriend isn't on the bingo card.
"Uh, sorry—do I know you?" I ask, keeping my tone polite even as I instinctively take a step back. Her face rings a faint bell, but I can't quite place where I've seen it.
"We haven't met." Her voice is smooth, but her smile doesn't reach her eyes. She's fucking drop-dead gorgeous in that terrifying, too-perfect way—golden hair, icy blue eyes, a runway-ready figure...
She looks like she's walked straight out of a top model runway, and yet, somehow, none of it makes her comfortable to chat with.
"Kathrina Gabriel," she says, lifting her chin. "Of the House of Gabriel, if that means anything to you. This is my house."
