It comes out smooth, automatic. Then I realize I’m not flirting the way I usually would. This is different.She’sdifferent. And I can’t explain it, but it feels like dangerous territory.
She slides back onto her stool, then glances behind her where abachelorette party has begun staring and whispering in confusion. They are wearing matching shirts and wide eyes.
“I can’t imagine...”
“Do you think...”
She hears their not-so-quiet whispering and raises her glass to them. “I’m better off. Trust me.”
And I don’t doubt that. I glance down, and she’s still wearing a huge engagement ring. The kind that could buy whole islands if she were to sell it for cash. At least she’s not hurting for money.
She catches me staring, looks at her ring, then back at me. “I paid for that.”
I chuckle and continue to wipe down the bar. She’s blunt, outspoken, and it’s honestly refreshing. She’s kind of funny, too.
One of the bachelorette ladies gapes at her. “Did you get married today? Where’s your husband?”
She shakes her head. “No. And he’s probably off celebrating.”
Who the hell would celebrate losing a woman like her? Some men are idiots. I know because I am one.
Just then, DJ Jeff starts playing “Where Is My Husband” by RAYE. I shake my head at Jeff, and he laughs and shrugs. He loves to pick weird songs to play at the strangest times.
That seems to break the tension and I’m grateful for it. The group of women laugh, and she laughs with them. She seems funny, like she’s making the most of this day, but the defeat is still glimmering in her blue eyes.
The women in the bachelorette party beckon her to join them and make room for her. Introductions fly. Names I’ll never remember. Except one. Silvie. It’s a classic, beautiful name and suits her.
They compliment her dress, despite it looking like it’s seen better days, and one woman says it must be custom-made. Silvie shrugs. “You can have it if you want. I’m never getting married. Everything is over.”
Silvie turns back to me. “Okay, I need something less sweet for me, Mr. Bartender. I’ve had enough sex on the beach.”
I chuckle. “Got it.”
The group has more questions that she dodges with practiced ease.
I make her another glass of water and bring it along with a lesssugary cocktail. She takes a sip of the new drink and nods approvingly. “Thank you, Mr. Bartender.”
“His name is Cal,” one of them calls out, snickering. “And he’s the hottest guy in Coconut Beach. He’s single I heard.”
I resist rolling my eyes. Flirting is part of the job here, and I’m used to most nonsense.
And yeah, I am single. By choice. I have enough on my plate, and I’m too busy for a relationship. If they knew me on a deeper level, they’d know I don’t want to be with someone who considers me a hot bartender. Nothing surface level. I want a real relationship, and I can’t seem to find that here in Coconut Beach. We have tourists who come and go. Catching feelings for someone who isn’t permanent is just plain stupid. And yeah, I’ve had my fair share of stupidity in that department, hence why I turn on the charm for tips, but don’t ever let it expand past that. Even for pretty, sad runaway brides. Eventually, she’ll go back to her castle in the city. And I know I’ll never leave here.
I just wink and say, “Let me know if you need anything else.”
Marina brings a tray of shots to the ladies, and they all say, “To finding the right one!”
I watch Silvie, and her eyes are sad when she takes her drink. She just lost who she thought was the right one. It’s written all over her filthy wedding dress and tearstained cheeks. Unfortunately, love isn’t for everyone. I, too, learned that lesson the hard way. Things changed for me about five years ago when I moved back to Coconut Beach. I’ve come to terms with the fact that this is my life now. Simple, easy, pain-free.
I can’t help but listen to their conversation, but my ears perk up when I hear Silvie say that she’s in town to see Birdie. I pick up her empty glasses and tilt my head in question. “You know Birdie?”
“Yeah, you know her, too?”
I smile at the question. “Everyone knows Birdie.”
“That’s what the rideshare driver told me, too,” she says, wrinkling her brow in confusion.
I glance at the clock. “They’re still doing bingo, though.”
