6
Tristan leaned over the bar to take his third pint of Guinness from the bartender at the Stowaway Pub. It was one of his few haunts that the paparazzi hadn’t discovered yet. Partially because it wasn’t the sort of place they expected him to go. He usually dined at the best restaurants, frequented the most expensive clubs, but here, in this tiny, backdoor establishment, he could be what the name suggested: a stowaway, content to have a pint in peace.
“Thank you,” he said, nodding at the bartender before turning back to the pub’s crowded room. Despite the snow, Londoners had flooded the small, warm, wood confines of the pub. He ignored the rowdy occupants and tipped his glass back.
What a wretched day. To have Kat under his roof and not be able to touch her was killing him. When they’d
