Page 2 of Grand Escape

I couldn’t turn away fast enough to key their order into the computer for the kitchen to send it over.

“Can I get another?” The order from down the bar came out deep and hoarse.

My heart cracked a little for this dude. Poor guy was sitting at a beachside bar, drowning his sorrows in Tito’s and wearing khakis while doing it. You can’t get much sadder than that.

I noticed that last fact as I leaned against the bar again. “You sure I can’t get you something more tropical? You are on Grand Cayman, you know.”

The guy ran his left hand through his hair, and I noted the absence of a wedding band.

So, which is messing with his emotions ... ex-girlfriend or ex-wife?

“Oh, I know.” He glanced out at the ocean. “But I like my Tito’s, thank you very much.”

I nodded. As I refilled his glass, I glanced at him. “This one isn’t on me.”

Sliding his room key across the bar, he actually chuckled, showing me a tiny glimpse of what could be a great smile.

As I slid the keycard back to him, I said, “I don’t need that, and I don’t think you need to be losing your room key. Just your room number will do.”

I’d made a rule a long time ago about returning drunk guests to their rooms or villas. It was a hard no. I’d learned my lesson the hard way outside Mr. Miller’s presidential suite during my first year. Wet behind the ears, I’d fallen for his ploy back then.

Sad Eyes slid the keycard into his pocket before grabbing his lowball and tossing back the Tito’s.

My eyebrows shot up. “Pretty sure that wasn’t meant to be a shooter.”

“Room seven-three-six, and I’ll have another shooter. Thanks again,” he said, his voice somewhat dulled by the alcohol.

I did as he asked, pouring another Tito’s and turning to type his room number into the computer. Of course, I glanced at his name—A. Stern—but didn’t ask him to confirm the details for me.

What kind of prick signs in with his initial?

“You always give everyone such a hard time?” he asked, his voice low and gravelly.

Swiveling to face him, I snagged my own mineral water along the way. “I’m a bartender. It comes with the job description.”

The ghost of a smile lifted one side of his mouth. A very nice mouth, by the way. “Huh. So, you’re a regular stand-up comedian.”

“I try my best.”

Swallowing a sip of my water, I watched his eyes following me. After the equivalent of six shots of Tito’s, they were a little cloudy, but beautiful, nonetheless. I’d always had a thing for blue eyes.

“You don’t drink on the job?” he asked.

“I’m drinking right now.” I lifted my glass bottle as proof.

“I meant the real stuff. But I guess that’s an occupational hazard.”

Interrupting the moment, our food runner, Sean, called out, “Hey, Ry. Here’s your food.”

“Thanks, I’ll take it over,” I said, taking the basket of chips and chilled tower of shrimp for the lovey-dovey honeymooners.

When it was slammed, I had Sean deliver the food, but tonight was all about the extra service and tips.

“You going to the party later?” Sean asked.

Frowning, I shook my head.

“Worth asking,” he said with a shrug, then hurried back to the kitchen.

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