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His hair is perfect. His beard is trimmed. He’s not wearing a tie, so the strong column of his throat is exposed, tattoo and all. The combination of sleek sophistication with raw masculinity is devastating. As is the British accent. Instead of Chris Hemsworth, tonight he’s James Bond. Leaning an elbow on the bar, he says to Harley, “Vodka martini. Shaken, not stirred.” Harley stares at him, nonplussed. “You’ve gotta be fuckin’ kidding me.” I lift my wine glass to him in a mock salute. “Amen.” Killian smiles blandly at the bartender. “And don’t shake too vigorously. The ice will bruise the vodka.” He turns to me, sending me a hot, half-lidded look. “Hello there.” “Hello yourself, Mr. Craig.” He lifts his brows. “Who’s Mr. Craig?” I look him up and down. “Daniel Craig. As in, the ac
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