Page 1 of The Summer Fling
1
LOGAN
"No offense, but this tastes like a wet rag." I swill the drink around my mouth once and spit into the bin. "Is this what I pay you for? I don't think so."
I set Eli's latest creation on the bar, aptly called Saltwater Funeral, because it would most likely send me to an early grave, and push it toward him. The thing is bright green and smells like I'm about to meet my maker in five seconds tops.
"It's a green tea martini with fresh mint and?—"
"We want our customers happy, Eli. This will do the opposite of that."
Eli grins and dumps the drink down the sink. "Fine, fine. You're such a critic. I'll stick to the classics then."
I'm about to tell him exactly what I think of his bartending experiments when she walks in.
We're in an open area, so it makes little sense that her very presence sucks the oxygen in the space.
But that's exactly what she does.
The glass in my hand goes still. My pulse spikes, heart beats double time.
Dark, shoulder-length hair, all messy waves that look like she's been running her hands through it. The thought of doing it myself slams into me before I can stop it, and something hot twists in my gut.
She scans the room, looking for a table, and when she turns, I get the full picture. Jesus. Curves that would make a saint reconsider his vows. Full hips in shorts that should be illegal, a pink tank top that's not hiding a damn thing. The way the fabric moves with her—I can't look away.
Her legs go on forever, freckles scattered across her shoulders like stars I want to map with my tongue. They disappear down her chest under that tank top, and I'm already wondering how far they go.
Just when I think I can't feel any more unmoored, she looks toward the bar, and her eyes lock with mine.
Blue.
Bright, clear blue like the water when it's so perfect you'd paddle out in a hurricane just to get in it. Full lips that would look so good wrapped around my?—
Goddammit. What is this? Where did this come from? Why the fuck am I acting like this?
The world tilts. Everything I thought I knew about want, about need, about the difference between looking and needing to touch—it all rewrites itself in the space of a heartbeat.
Fuck.
I'm staring. I know I'm staring because Eli elbows me in the ribs.
"You're gonna break the marble."
I look down. My knuckles are white, gripping the edge of the bar. "What?"
"Stop looking at the woman. The one you've been eye-fucking for the past thirty seconds. You'll scare her away."
I grab a towel and wipe my hands because I need to keep myself busy. My self-control, something I've always been proud of, is fracturing beneath a pressure I do not recognize. "I have no idea what you're talking about."
"Sure you don't. Should I get you a napkin for the drool? Second thought, maybe a bowl."
She finds a table on the patio and drops her beach bag beside her chair. No ring. A small tote bag. One towel. Hmm. Interesting. I've been in business long enough to know what kind of tourist she is.
She's alone, and every instinct I have is telling me to walk over there and introduce myself.
But I don't. She's here to relax, not get hit on by a guy who owns a bar. The island gets enough tourists who think vacation means every woman is fair game. The last thing I want is to intrude on her peace.
Instead, I watch her from behind the bar like some kind of creep. She orders a drink—something with rum and fruit that matches her pink top. When Eli brings it over, the womanlaughs at something he says. I love Eli. He's been my best friend since high school, and he's like a brother to me.
