Homeless? Check. I moved in with Christian a year ago, and since Student Gate, I’ve been bouncing around hotels and an Airbnb while I figure out what’s next for me.
Unemployed? Check. I quit my position because teaching alongside Christian after I found out he’d spent the last semester dicking a nineteen-year-old just wasn’t something I could bear.
Single as fuck? Double check. See: self-explanatory.
In other words, damn it, I’m going to have another lemon martini.
I jerk myself from my misery, looking for the friendly bartender who took one look at me when I plopped myself on this barstool and instinctively knew I needed a friend.
I think he told me his name was Johnny. He had graying hair, soft brown eyes, and a contagious smile, and he reminded me of someone’s grandpa.
But Johnny isn’t behind the bar anymore.
A new guy is. And this guy is as far from friendly grandfather as you can get.
He’s dressed all in black from head to toe, and he’s easily over six feet and mesmerizingly jacked, his back to me.
Maybe it’s the lemon martini, but I catch myself staring at his ass before jerking my mind and eyes out of the gutter.
You’re not here to ogle bartenders, Isla. You’re here to support your bestie and make sure she has the best damn day of her life when she marries her man.
It’s a reminder I need. This isn’t about me.
It never was. This trip has always been about Luna.
Luna having the wedding of a lifetime. Luna getting the happily ever after she deserves.
I can have a pity party later, when this is all over.
I’m not even going to tell her about Christian cheating on me with Harlow—that name, ugh—or that we broke up.
I’m keeping this shit on lockdown until she rides off into the sunset.
For now, all I need is another lemon martini.
And to breathe.
Yeah, that too.
I take a deep breath, but my plan instantly goes sideways.
The breath freezes in my chest, because Bartender 2.
0 turns toward me. He’s shaking a cocktail, and with his black shirt rolled to his elbows, he is the definition of forearm porn.
But my overloaded brain barely registers all that.
Instead, I’m drinking him in like he’s the martini I’ve been waiting for, only he’s better than any martini could possibly be.
His hands are tatted. His eyes are the same color blue as the Caribbean Sea with the sun setting over the gorgeous waters.
And he’s beautiful. Black hair, high forehead, angular jaw, cheekbones that could slice you, and his mouth.
Sweet baby Jesus, his mouth. This man could have just sauntered off a runway with those looks and that smolder. He’s one part dangerous, one part sex.
And he’s walking toward me, smiling, his gaze holding mine with an intensity that makes me feel like I might fall right off the barstool.
My body is suddenly overwhelmed, my nipples hard under the oversized, comfy tee I wore for traveling.
It’s a good thing I cared enough to wear a bra, because I’d be saluting Hot Bartender right now.
He’s coming closer.
Closer.
He’s in front of me now, and I swear, those eyes burn a hole right into my soul. Is it possible that this deliciously handsome man is into me? The second the idiotic thought pops into my mind, I cancel it.
No, it’s not possible. I’m wearing a Jane Austen t-shirt and leggings, I haven’t slept properly in weeks, and I’ve spent the day dashing around multiple airports, trying to get myself here. I don’t even know if I brushed my hair this morning.
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 martini?” he asks.
My cheeks are on fire. OMG. He’s not flirting with me. He’s serving me. 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.
“One four three,” I blurt.
He winks. “One four three. 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’t exactly 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 martini, and I take another sip.