Marina is also behind the bar, leaning over the counter and laughing at something a tall, good-looking tourist says. He’s charming and definitely enjoying the attention.
Cal leans toward me. “That guy’s not ordering drinks. He’s flirting.”
I smile at Cal, who’s protective of Marina, as he is of all the staff. He’s always looking out for them. Marina is like a sister to him, andI’ve never seen her seem this interested in a tourist. But he’s laying on the southern charm thick with an accent.
Something about him seems off, though. I can’t put my finger on it, but my Spidey senses are going off.
Marina flips her hair, rests her chin on her hand, bats her eyelashes at him, and says something that makes the guy throw his head back and laugh. He keeps glancing our way, and Marina doesn’t seem to notice.
Cal shakes his head and goes back to slicing limes. “He better not break her heart or I’ll break his legs.”
I laugh. “That got dark.”
He shrugs. “I’ve seen it happen a lot. Tourists come, and we’re just temporary toys to them.”
“Hey,” I say as I reach across the bar and lay my hand on that deliciously muscular forearm. “Those days are over for you, husband.”
He shakes his head and grins. “That they are. I’ve got what I need right here.”
I raise a brow. “You’re married now, and Marina gets to flirt. Are you jealous?”
“Of flirting?”
I raise a brow. “Yes.”
He smirks. “I can still flirt.”
I frown. “No, you cannot.”
He laughs and leans across the bar. “I can flirt with my wife.”
Ohhhhh. I squeeze my thighs together at him, calling me his wife in such a hot way.
Marina leans closer to the tourist. “So, you’re here alone?” she asks sweetly.
The guy smiles, and he says, “Yes, I am.”
I can’t help but recognize that his southern accent has dropped slightly. Red flags are being raised.
“What are you here for?” she asks.
“For work,” he says smoothly.
“What kind of work?” she asks as she wipes down the bar.
“Media.”
Something in my stomach tightens. Before I can say anything, he casually reaches into his pocket, pulls out his phone, holds it up, and takes pictures of Cal and me.
Shit. Shit. Shit. Paparazzi. Damn it.
“Hey!” Marina yells and jumps back, hurt on her face.
The man’s expression changes instantly, and his charm has evaporated.
“Silverlyn Montclair and her bartender husband at the local tiki bar,” he says as he holds his phone up recording us.
My blood runs cold. I freeze and stare at Cal.
