“Yeah? Well, since you’re so good atobserving, how many drinks have you served her?”
“I don’t know. I’m not anyone’s keeper.”
“Yeah? How long have you been bartending?”
“Not long.”
No shit. It’s why he was working the morning shift on the pool deck. Shitty bartender. Shitty shift. “And if she had passed out from alcohol poisoning or sun sickness?”
“I don’t know, man? She looks fine to me.” He feigns indifference again.
“Yeah, and you’re going to make sure she stays that way. Otherwise, I’m going to have a nice long chat with your manager, and you’ll be stuck working this sweaty pool deck shift forever.”
He doesn’t respond. “What do you want?”
“I want you to have someone from the spa come and escort her to her room. Have them treat her like fucking royalty, and don’t fucking embarrass her. And then I want her to spend the whole day at that spa?—”
“I can’t charge that to her room without her approval. Do you know how much a full day at the spa costs?”
“I’ll pay for it,” I tell him. “And I don’t give a shit about the cost.”
“Are you rich or something?” He snorts.
“Nope,” I lie. “Just a bartender who actually knows how to do his job. Now, hand the phone back over to Presley,” I tell him as he mutters under his breath. “Oh, and one more thing. Stop fucking looking at her.”
Pretty sure I hear him call me an asshole.
Not entirely sure I don’t deserve it, though.
I got the text over thirty minutes ago and have been sitting here in my living room staring at it ever since.
She sent me a photo.
Presley sent me a selfie, and I can’t stop looking at it because it’s the first time I’ve seen her since high school. She looks fresh-faced and sobered up from her day at the spa. Her hair is wet, and she’s wearing one of those fluffy white robes that every fancy hotel seems to have.
She’s holding a glass of champagne with a huge grin plastered on her face.
She’s the most breathtaking vision I’ve ever seen.
And now I’m thinking about doing something really, really stupid. I decide to call for reinforcements instead.
Jonas picks up the FaceTime call almost immediately. “Hey, what’s up?”
I slow blink as I try to make sense of what I’m seeing. “Are you in the bathtub?”
He scoops up a handful of bubbles, smears them down the smooth skin of his chest, and smirks. “Yup.”
I shake my head back and forth, trying to dislodge the mental image of my best friend naked in the bath. “You know you don’t have to answer when I call, right?”
He shrugs, shifting so his shoulders dip slightly lower into the water, not showing any signs of being bothered by his lack of clothing. “Figured it might be important. You rarely call me. Plus, I am really comfortable in my own skin.”
“I call you.”
“No,” he argues. “You’re a die-hard texter. I can count on one hand the number of times you’ve called me outside of work shit. Wait, is this work shit? ’Cause if so—” A bare foot slides up his torso.
“Fucking hell, Jonas. Keisha’s in there with you?”
“Of course she is. You think I’m sitting here, taking a bubble bath all by myself?”
