Page 4 of Bait and Switch
“I don’t know, it’s been the talk of the town all week,” I said, admiring his humility. Most guys would brag about facilitating a drug seizure. Part of me wanted to ask more, to peel back the layers, but another part whispered to leave it — because in the Keys, sometimes curiosity was a dangerous habit.
“Nothing more exciting than real life smugglers in Smugglers Cove,” Kai chuckled, the sound hollow. “Small town life.” He drained the last of his beer and tapped the rim of his mug. “I’ll take another when you have time,” he said before sliding off his barstool and heading for the john.
I followed him with my eyes as he strolled past the pool tables, his stride loose, confident, slightly aloof. My stomach flipped. Was it humility…or was it supreme cockiness? Was he too cool to be a local hero? Was the drug bust as forgettable to him as our one-night stand?
CHAPTER 3
KAI
Ididn’t really have to pee; I just wanted to end the conversation. I was sick of telling the story, of everyone acting like finding a floating bale of drugs made me some kind of hero.
Tired eyes stared back at me from the mirror, bloodshot and salt burned. It had been a long week. I’d become a recluse, ducking the attention whenever I could. Every retelling of the story felt like a fishing line wrapped tighter around my throat, pulling me into waters I didn’t want to tread.
“You should have stayed home,” I muttered to myself, splashing water on my face. Cool droplets slid down my cheeks, washing away the sweat but not the tension. The reflection didn’t lie: dark circles, sun-creased lines, and a weariness that went deeper than muscle. I decided I should at least try to piss before heading back out there. Leaving the faucet running to coax it out, I let my head fall forward, focusing on relaxing my clenched jaw and tight shoulders.
Finally the stream started to flow, and my eyes wandered to the painting hanging crookedly above the urinal.
“Hmm. That’s new,” I said under my breath. The painting seemed out of place beside the EMPLOYEES MUST WASH HANDS plaque. I squinted, leaning closer to read the little card pinned to the corner of the canvas.
Alligator Lighthouse, Local artist Jasmine Cline, acrylic on canvas, $75.
“Jasmine, huh?” I chuckled under my breath, shaking off before zipping up. The name sat warm on my tongue, familiar in a way I couldn’t pin down. Maybe it was the way it matched her sharp green eyes, or maybe it was the simple fact that she was the cutest girl I’d seen in a long while. She was more than just a bartender slinging beers. She was an artist.
By the time I stepped back into the bar, the place had filled up. The crowd’s hum wrapped around me—clinking glasses, laughter, the jukebox cranking something too loud for conversation. The air was thick with beer foam and fried food, voices layering like surf. Every time the door opened, a wash of humid night swept in, reminding me how small and close this island world really was.
Behind the counter, Jasmine was in motion, slinging two mugs down the polished wood with one hand while shaking a cocktail tin in the other. She moved like she owned the place — not tentative, not meek, but with the steady rhythm of someone who knew how to bend chaos into order.
I reached for my mug, realizing it was still empty. “Did you forget about me?” I called, ribbing the cute new bartender.
Her green eyes snapped up, flashing anger. “No, Kai, I didn’t forget you. That would be rude.”
The words hit sharper than I expected. I flinched as she set the drink down in front of a guy two stools to my left, her jaw tight, her smile nonexistent. Heat crawled up my neck. I hadn’t meant to hit a nerve, but apparently, I’d stepped square into one.
Apparently she was not in a joking mood.
“I waited to serve your beer because I didn’t want it to get warm,” she added, undeniably annoyed. Snatching my empty mug, she strode away with brisk efficiency. Her ponytail snapped against her shoulder like punctuation.
“Thank you, that’s sweet,” I called after her, raising my voice over the din. “Take your time.” I tried to smooth it over, if that’s what you call patching an innocent remark gone sideways. The grin on my face felt forced, brittle at the edges.
When Jasmine returned with the fresh beer, she set it down without looking at me. Definitely pissed.
I tried again, softer this time. “Is your last name Cline?”
Her eyes narrowed. “I never told you my last name.”
“I know. That’s why I’m asking if it’s Cline…” I lifted a brow, amused despite myself. This chick might have issues. Or maybe she just had boundaries, which in this town was a rare trait.
“But how did you know it was Cline?” She asked with an interrogator’s skepticism.
“Saw it on the painting in the bathroom,” I said with a grin I hoped would melt her icy tone. “The way you did the light on the water is magical.”
Her lips parted, surprise replacing irritation. “Oh, thanks.” Color rose in her cheeks, her face finally easing into a smile. The shift was like sunrise over the flats—subtle, then undeniable.
Progress.
Glen, who’d been half-watching while nursing his drink, jabbed his finger toward the painting over the dartboards. “I helped her hang that one tonight.”
Jasmine shot him a look, half embarrassment, half exasperation, before shrugging like she didn’t care. “I’ve been in a seascape phase. Tourists seem to like them.”
