Page 14 of Deceitful Vows

“About to break my ever-lovin’ heart.”

It is evil for me to smile. It can’t be helped, though. You can’t hear the playfulness in his tone. It has me on the cusp of believing a night with him would be worth the possible discomfort I’ll face when I finally build up the courage to test Dr. Hemway’s theory that not all endometriosis sufferers endure pain during sex.

He slides a napkin with his digits on it across the sticky bar. “In case you change your mind.” My smile notches my cheeks higher when he moseys to the other side of the bar while saying, “I’ll even kick them out of my bed mid-deed if you’re not into sharing.”

“And if I was interested?” I ask, doing anything to keep the tension off the fact that I turned down an invitation from a devilishly good-looking man for a stranger I’ll most likely never see again.

The bartender groans before he grips his chest like his heart can’t possibly sustain more damage. “I’d die a very happy man.”

He winks like he has the world at his feet when I slip off the barstool and store his number in my pocket before he gives the buxom trio the star treatment they’ve been seeking for the past several hours.

I smile, glad someone is getting their rocks off tonight, before I head for the exit.

I’m about to break into the foyer when the bartender’s deep rumble stops me in my tracks. “They restock the dessert cabinet every day at midday.” He waits for me to crank my neck back to face him before saying, “That’s what they told the blonde in the middle of the pack when she wasn’t as adamant as you that she must have that specific cake.”

His reply announces he was watching me longer than I was seated in his bar, awaiting the arrival of my baby sister. I let it slide, however, since he’s given me hope I may still see her before returning home for another long stint of absence.

“I’m guessing I am gonna see you tomorrow?”

I don’t take even a second to consider my reply. “Your guess would be correct.”

The trio’s lips drop into a pout when he devotes his attention back to me enough for them to lose the heat of his gaze. “Where are you staying?” My brow barely lifts when he attempts to eradicate my confusion. “You’re not a local. If you were, I would have sniffed you out years ago.” He takes a moment to relish my furled lips and then adds, “And you’re not a hotel guest, or you would have taken advantage of the canapes and free booze offered after four p.m. every afternoon, so where are you gonna rest your head for the night?”

Bartenders are like hairdressers—they know everything. Trying to deceive them is just foolish, so I be honest. “I was planning to drive home. Now I’ll probably just find a place to stay on the outskirts of town.”

By place, I mean a truck stop or a gas station, where I will sleep in my car with the tire wrench hidden under the hoodie I’m going to treat as a blanket.

The bartender, still nameless, sees through my lie in under a second. “Truck stops ain’t no place for a lady.” I’m already stammering for air from how easily he read me, so you can picture my gasping state when he says, “You can crash at mine.”

Not paying attention to my headshake, he snags a set of keys from beneath the bar and then tosses them at me.

I either catch them or let them fall to the floor.

I catch them. It doesn’t mean what the trio at the end of the bar thinks.

I’m not going home with him.

“I’m not… I can’t.” That whiny brat with a voice oddly similar to mine had better quit stuttering before I smack her. “Thanks for the offer, but I’ll be fine.”

“You either stay at my place, or I’ll spend the night circling the truck stops, seeking you in the…”—he twists his lips as he contemplates—“rusted white Lada Niva you’re getting around in that is most likely older than you.” I snap my mouth shut. “Your stingy ass is as uneager as the rest of us to pay the valet parking rate here, so you parked behind me in an alleyway a couple of blocks up.”

I don’t feel threatened by him. He doesn’t give off dark and dangerous vibes like Andrik, though it won’t stop me from saying, “You said you arrived for your shift eight hours ago.” He nods, unknowingly inching toward my trap. “So how did you see me park behind you a little over four hours ago?”

I assume he’s seconds from being snared by my trap. I’m poorly mistaken. “Do you really think I’d park my custom Irbis in an alleyway without making sure she was wired up to the hilt with surveillance?”

I have no clue what an Irbis is, but it is clearly important to him. He switches the football on the TV to a live feed of the alleyway two blocks up from the hotel.

“Hey!” a fellow bartender shouts in frustration. “I was watching that.”

“Now you’re watching my bike,” Bartender One replies, his tone firm enough for his colleague to back down on his campaign in an instant.

Bartender One’s motorcycle replicates a Harley Davidson. It is all black with chrome features. It’s a sexy bike—even more so when featured next to my bomb, which is one coastal visit from being completely rusted out.

After admiring his favorite mode of transport for a few more seconds, he tells the complaining bartender to snap a picture of the tags on his bike.

When he does as asked, Bartender One nudges his head to me before saying with a smile, “Now her.”

“I don’t conse?—”

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