Page 9 of Hot Saltwater Kisses

“Tell me something I don’t know.” I fumbled with the black silk scarf that was part of the seaside bar’s uniform. It felt more like an accessory for a stripper than a server at a high-end resort, but I didn’t make the rules. Proof? Pulling a weekly shift here was part of my gig.

“The chicks at Table 5 are on their third round,” Leroy said. “Getting flirty, so go easy on their next order. And 19’s a hot mess—two guys, might play for your team. They’ve been fighting since they got here, kept trying to make me take sides.”

“Take sides?” My gaze skimmed over a cluster of cushioned wicker chairs near the bar, where four women loudly defied sobriety. Table 5. Around the edges, plush daybeds and cabanas offered privacy, gauzy curtains and string lights creating a romance-by-the-numbers vibe. Vibrant tunes—an eclectic mix from Afrobeat to house—drowned out the gentle lapping of the waves.

Table 19 was a cabana close to the water, the sea blending into the dark velvet of the night sky. Only one guy was visible, drink in hand, the other waving dramatically. He didn’t look too upset.

“Take sides on whether a Negroni Sbagliato is just a Negroni with training wheels,” Leroy supplied. “Oh, and the correct way to hang toilet paper—over or under?”

“No strong feelings here,” I said.

“Same.” Leroy shrugged. “But those two would beg to differ. Apparently, hanging toilet paper under is like throwing it on the floor and calling it a day. Or, conversely, over is a cry for help because your life’s got no color and meaning.”

“Why you gotta call me out like that?”

Leroy’s teeth flashed in a white grin. “If the roll fits…”

I waved him off and grabbed some menus, checking in with Frankie behind the bar. A decade ago, he had swapped the canned air of fancy hotels and cruise lounges for a fresh island breeze—this bar was his baby.

After delivering drinks to a honeymoon couple, I worked my way around the space, dropping smiles and asking, ‘how ya doing tonight?’ on autopilot.

Everyone was great, as they should be. If you can’t be happy sipping a cocktail in paradise, something’s wrong with you.

Right. Time to check on Table 19.

A gay couple wasn’t so unusual. Yes, schmucks like me still needed to be discreet about their preferences. But tourism was a key driver of Dominica’s economy, and no one here wanted outdated views to spoil a good holiday. Resorts like ours had embraced a welcoming vibe well before the law caught up.

The first guy was a snack, all dark hair and blue eyes, animated face. But the other guy? Logan. So much for not seeing him until tomorrow’s morning dive. He still ticked all my aesthetic boxes, while the rest was up for debate.

So… friends? Or more?

Not that it mattered to me. What mattered was the shift in Blue Eyes’ body language when he saw me, from relaxed to high alert in a blink. I plastered on a smile and approached, sand giving slightly under my sandals.

“—when your shirt looks like you raided a clown’s wardrobe!” Blue Eyes exclaimed as I reached their cabana.

“Look,” Logan started, frowning. “Just becauseyourcloset is a tribute to fifty shades of dull…”

Jump in or exit stage left? Before I could make up my mind, Blue Eyes waved me closer with the imperious air of the rich and entitled. “Hey, man. Help me out here. Who wears it better—a clown or this guy?”

Uh. I glanced at Logan just as he looked at me. His stern expression collapsed like a house of cards. “Milo, hey! What are you doing here?”

As a waiter, I was meant to maintain the usual formalities, peppering my interactions with ‘sir’ and ‘madam’. By contrast, the dive community thrived on first names and easy banter, and that was where I’d first met him. So… choices, choices.

“Just making sure your night’s great and your glass isn’t empty,” I said carefully. “But maybe I best leave you to it?”

“You’re Milo?” Blue Eyes grinned. “The dive instructor, right?”

“And your waiter tonight,” I said. “Didn’t realize that my reputation preceded me.”

“Logan’s mentioned you.” Blue Eyes infused the statement with liberal room for interpretation, and Logan sighed.

“I told Tom you weren’t so impressed with my underwater antics. But seriously, why are you doubling as a waiter?”

“Emergency shift.” Really, it was more like a regularly scheduled cost-saving measure, but I wasn’t about to air my frustrations in front of them. “Now, what’s this about your shirt?”

“It’s a crime against fashion as we know it,” Tom said, although with less bite. He wasn’t wrong—the Hawaiian travesty of a shirt was hideous. But half unbuttoned, it earned a pardon by flaunting Logan’s chest.

“It’s bold,” I said somewhat diplomatically, and Logan laughed.

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