Page 14 of Dirty Grovel

Still, as much as I want to hide out in this bathroom until Sydney finds a way to send me some money, my stomach growls fiercely, reminding me that it’s been a few hours since I last ate.

And even then, I’d been so nervous about Oleg that I’d barely eaten anything substantial enough to keep me full.

Plus, the stench is starting to get to me. But out in the bar isn’t much better. Lurking beneath the bathroom and booze scents is the distinct odor of horny desperation.

Angling around a bunch of loud-mouthed frat boys who feel the need to whistle at every girl who passes by them, I beeline to the bar and find a seat in front of the bartender. He’s the only one who seems as stone-cold sober as I am right now.

“Yo,” he greets. “What can I get you?”

I scan the bar menu in front of me. There’s a club sandwich on there that sounds like just what I need.

Unfortunately, the thirteen-dollar price tag is not.

“An ibuprofen and some more clothes,” I quip, just as my arm is jostled by a drunk girl walking past.

The bartender laughs. His curly brown hair and hazel eyes are very attractive. As is his dimpled smile.

Objectively, he’d be right up my alley, looks-wise. But somehow, every time I try to find some smidgeon of attraction towards him, I come up blank.

I’d like to be able to deny why, but there’s no point.

Oleg Pavlov has ruined other men for me.

“Not having fun, are we?” he asks, doing a fancy little flip of the glass he’s holding.

I’m assuming that’s for my benefit, so I decide to milk his interest a little.

I don’t feel good about it—but hey, a girl’s gotta eat.

“You can thank the pickpocket who stole my purse while I was coming down the boardwalk,” I lie seamlessly. “He took off with the money I was going to spend on a nice dinner. It’s an hour’s walk back to my hotel and I thought I’d take a little break before heading back. Doesn’t help that I’m starving, either.”

The bartender raises his eyebrows, the picture of sympathy.

It’s working.

“So, if you don’t mind, I’m just gonna sit here—” I flash him a smile. “—and pretend I’m not hungry while I rest my feet before walking back to my hotel.”

He holds up a finger. “I’ll be right back.”

He disappears into the back through aSTAFF ONLYdoor. When he returns a few minutes later, he’s carrying two plates. One is laden with soggy fries and the other is filled with chicken fingers dripping oil all over the wax paper.

Not the healthiest meal for a pregnant woman.

But beggars can’t be choosers.

“Eat up,” he says generously. “I’ll set you up with a nice drink. On the house, of course.”

“You’re too sweet.”

“Just call me Mr. Chivalry,” he says light-heartedly. “Now, about that drink—how about a piña colada? You’re in paradise after all, baby.”

Suppressing my cringe, I shake my head. “I probably need the alcohol, but I think I’ll go for a safe mocktail tonight.”

“You sure?”

“A hundred percent.”

“Suit yourself.” He shrugs and starts to mix.

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