God.
“Not God,” he tells me, grinning. “I’m Alessio.”
Shit. I said that out loud? And his name is Alessio? Even his name is unfairly hot. Am I awake right now?
“Another lemon drop?” he asks.
My cheeks are on fire. OMG. He’s not flirting with me. He’sservingme. Because he’s the bartender. Right.
Get your shit together, Isla.
I swallow hard. “Yeah.” And then remembering I have manners, I add, “Please.”
He plucks a fresh glass from somewhere behind the bar and sets it on the gray-and-white granite before me. Another shake—as I try not to drool over his tatted forearms, really, I do—and he pops the lid, pouring a martini into my new glass. He adds a lemon twist garnish.
He’s still standing here. Alessio. Sex on fire. And I’m still staring.
“Your room number?” he prods.
“Eight thirteen,” I blurt.
He winks. “Eight thirteen. Got it.”
For a second, I have this wild idea that he’s going to show up at my hotel room later, when his shift is over. Will I let him in? I don’t do one-night stands. But then, my last relationship didn’texactly work out, did it? I’m in paradise. You only live once. I’ll never see beautiful Alessio again.
I should go for it.
“Should I add it to your tab?” He wants to know, his tone perfectly polite.
I die inside. He only wanted my room number for the charge. Shouldn’t he have my tab from Johnny, though? This is so confusing. Maybe I’m a little, teeny-tiny bit drunk.
“Um, sure,” I mumble, feeling like a complete idiot.
And then he walks away, moving to a couple on the other side of the bar and taking their orders, leaving me to wonder what the heck just happened here.
My overactive imagination, I decide. Fueled by vodka.
But to hell with it, I’m on vacation. Chances are, I’ll never see Alessio again after tonight.
Tamping down my embarrassment, I pick up my lemon drop, and I take another sip.
Saint
I presenta rum punch and a whiskey neat to the friendly couple at the bar who are in St. Thomas for their wedding anniversary. We’ve chatted long enough for me to know that they’re from Maryland, both retired, and they have two adult kids who are married with families of their own. The husband taught high school math, and the wife owned a bakery.
“Thank you,” she enthuses, decked out in a classic tourist tropical dress, reaching for her punch as bangle bracelets clink on her wrist.
The husband is wearing a flowy button-down palm tree shirt that screamsI’m an American on vacation. They’re the kind of parents I could almost wish I’d had, pulling out their phones and showing me pictures of their grandkids with pride. Normal, loving parents.
But I didn’t have normal, loving parents like these two.
Because I’m an Andriani. Born to blood and violence and greed, to an empire of sin and the means to protect it at all costs. My dad was a heartless bastard, and my mom peaced out on my brothers and me when we were kids.
I’m not a bartender, but here in the islands, I’ve found that I enjoy talking to people when they don’t have a clue who I really am. I like getting them to reveal pieces of their lives to me. Pretending I’m someone I’m not, even if it’s only for the night, amuses me.
Not much amuses me these days, so I take what I can get.
Leaving the couple to their lighthearted bickering over their plans for tomorrow, I turn away and feel Sad Hot Blonde eye-fucking me from over her lemon drop. The minute I saw her in that ugly-ass shirt, I knew she wasn’t my type. She’s got English teacher written all over her, and the only thing I liked about English class in high school was Miss Esposito’s tits.
