Page 10 of Hot Saltwater Kisses

“It’s my mom’s, so choose your next words with care.”

“His mom’s hot,” Tom said. So, not a couple. And unless I wastotally off base, their earlier bickering had been another one of Logan’s tests—see how the bar staff handled it.Whatever, jerk.

The sting was gone, though; it felt less personal now that I could see he did it to everyone. Didn’t mean I fully trusted his newfound boy-next-door persona.

“Not in that shirt, she isn’t,” I said, after a beat.

“Harsh.” Logan flattened one dramatic hand against his chest, crinkles radiating out from the corners of his eyes.Dimples. I snagged my attention away and found Tom watching me with a quirk to his mouth. Jesus Christ, what.

“You’ll live,” I told Logan with a quick smile, reaching for my professional training. “Now, what can I get you both?”

“Another Negroni,” Tom said. “Aproperone.”

It must have referred to their earlier quibble because Logan snorted. His tone was playful, body language easy as he addressed Tom. “For a Budweiser fan, you sure have high standards for cocktails.”

“Budweiser is like comfort food,” Tom said. Yeah, I was ready to bet their earlier fight had been pure theater. “Keeps it real, you know?”

“Says the guy who thinks that staying at a four-star hotel means roughing it,” Logan said.

Tom countered with a huffed laugh. “Dude, one backpacking trip through Europe doesn’t make you an expert either.”

Years of friendship were obvious in their easy back and forth. It was entertaining. At the same time, it pinged a hint of envy at their shared history—but it was my own fault I’d lost most people like that. I held on to my smile. “Well, this five-star waiter would like to know what drink to get you. One classic Negroni and...?”

“An Espresso Martini,” Logan finished.

“You know that doesn’t come with a pink paper umbrella, right?” Tom asked him. A not-so-subtle indication of Logan’s sexuality? Still none of my business, but...

“I can put it in as a special order,” I said.

Logan’s grin was big. “Would you?”

Usually, I’d stick to a professional response. This was Logan, though, who’d been amused at me saddling him with an oversized wetsuit, and who’d just requested his drink come with a pink umbrella. Reason enough to bend the rules just a little.

“Sure.” I let my voice dip into smarmy territory as I paraphrased the resort’s glossy promises. “Your satisfaction is our mission, and we aim to fulfill your every need with unwavering attention to detail.”

Logan blinked, then laughed, while Tom leaned back with an amused twist to his mouth. “It takes skill to deliver that kind of garbage with a straight face, man. Do they make you rehearse that in the onboarding process?”

I was already toeing several lines of appropriate guest interaction, and Table 22 had been clamoring for my attention. So I left it at a meaningful wink and made my exit, trying to tamp down on a smile.

One Negroni and one Espresso Martini decorated with a pink paper umbrella—coming right up.

If the resortwere a spaghetti Western, Richard’s perfectionist rounds would be that scene where the gunslinger strolls into the saloon and everyone starts ducking for cover.

An hour into my shift, Richard arrived, looking to enforce his version of law and order. With only Frankie and me on duty, we were the hapless townsfolk in his line of fire. Richard’s first gripe was with our music. He dropped it when I informed him it was one of the resort’s officially sanctioned playlists. Next, he turned his scrutiny to the bar’s arrangement—unaware that Frankie had fine-tuned it over months to the point where he could navigate it blindfolded. As such, Frankie was really quite attached to his setup.

A few sentences into the discussion, I had to leave them to deliver drinks that were beginning to drip condensation. Then Table 5, now on their fourth round, summoned me for a qualified male opinion on breast implants—hot or not? They wouldn’t take diplomacy for an answer until I explained that my appreciation for the femalephysique was purely aesthetic in nature. I ducked away before they could ask me to locate tonight’s male clientele on a heat map.

“—not like I waltz intoyouroffice and tell you how to organize the fucking paperweights,” Frankie said as I walked back within earshot. Ah.

I was about to interfere with an extremely complex order that required extensive consultation when Logan’s low voice stalled me. “Who’s the guy?”

“Frankie?” I turned my head to find Logan right behind me, watching the scene at the bar with sharp interest. “Our bartender. Who added a pink paper umbrella to your drink, just in case you forgot.”

“Not him,” Logan said. “The guy reaming him out.”

That would be our resident douchebag in charge.

I strove for a neutral tone. “Richard is our big boss.”

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