“Look closer,” I say, leaning on the bar. “They’ll be uploading those selfies the moment they reconnect to the outside world.”
He glances over my shoulder and frowns; I don’t even have to look to know that those girls are in full-on selfie mode as the waitress collects their drink orders. I’m stunned they’re not ordering off the Hottest Bartender in the Universe, but I guess they haven’t noticed him yet. I need to get the Wi-Fi password before they trample me when they rush the bar.
I’m not even above begging for it. I think I lost my last shred of self-respect when I begged my boyfriend not to dump me four nights ago.
Spoiler alert: he dumped me anyway.
“Pretty please? I haven’t been able to get cellular service since I left the highway.”
The bartender’s blue, bottomless eyes meet mine again, and my ovariessquee!at the eye contact; they don’t seem to understand that this isn’t foreplay and he’s not buying us a drink. They must be confused by all the smolder and the liquor bottles.
“Depends what network you’re on,” he mansplains gruffly, which is zero percent helpful, and returns to unpacking his bottles.
“Look, I wouldn’t press the issue, but I’m not trying to get on TikTok to check my Likes. This is important.”
His brow furls grumpily, somehow ramping up the smolder. “Important, how?”
I hesitate, considering how to put it. Heisa stranger, and I’m at a major disadvantage here. June Spencer, the seventysomething woman I met at a food and beverage industry conference last autumn, is the only person I know on Vancouver Island. And since she’s supposed to provide my lodging tonight, I’m really not sure where this leaves me.
I texted her before I left Vancouver this morning by ferry to let her know I was on my way—long before I lost cellular service—but received no reply. Considering I’ve only met June once in person and spoken to her since by infrequent email, I’m not even sure she knowshowto text.
For a moment, I entertain the grim thought that maybe the poor woman died and no one told me.
“I just need to make a couple of calls. I was supposed to meet a local woman named June Spencer like half an hour ago,” I explain, and I don’t miss the way the bartender’s frown deepens. “Do you know her?”
He grunts, then returns to his task. “Good luck with that. If you can’t find June, she doesn’t want to be found.”
Okay. That is not encouraging.
“Look, I’ll pay for it.” As I start digging for cash in my purse, he looks offended. “Come on, you must have Wi-Fi for your business.”
“Of course he does,” drawls an amused voice near my left ear.
I startle as I realize an entire adult male has somehow sat himself on the barstool directly beside me and has been blatantly eavesdropping on us. For how long, I don’t know. He’s got sexy-messy dark hair, a jawline that could cut glass, and even more tattoos than the Hottest Bartender in the Universe down his muscular arms. He’s dressed like a carpenter who just came from a job site, sawdust and smears of dried paint on his otherwise white T-shirt and worn-in jeans, with work boots.
The bartender scowls at him, and the newcomer draws back, lifting his hands in the air; his brown eyes twinkle at me. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you.” He flashes a charming smile and winks at me like some old-timey movie villain.
Well, shit.There are two of them.
I live in a bustling, well-populated city, and I’ve never just randomly stumbled upon two regular guys this hot.
So this is where they all live.
Hottest Bartender in the Universe pours a draft beer and places it in front of Hot Carpenter, grouching, “You’re late,” as I openly stare.
And they know each other?
“Yeah. And nowyou’relate,” Hot Carpenter says pleasantly. “Shouldn’t you be working on the house by now?”
“I’m leaving in a minute,” the bartender grumbles. “Got caught up.”
“I see that.” Hot Carpenter smiles—at me—his gaze dipping briefly to my yoga pants.
Hottest Bartender in the Universe scowls at the man, who is clearly his friend and is busting his balls right now. Overme.
Before this conversation completely derails, I ask the bartender, “Not trying to be that Karen, but could I please speak with the manager or owner?”
Hot Carpenter snorts. “You’re speaking to him. And you really don’t want to go above his head to his grandpa. Believe it or not, Tommy Grant is even grumpier than his grandson.”
