Page 48 of Lust and Little White Lies

Dane stirs the two drinks he just made and delivers them to the couple on the other side of the bar. "Can I get you anything else?"

"No, we're good," the man says. He cocks his head at Dane. "I'm curious what brand of gin and vermouth you use. You make a much better negroni than I usually get."

"Thanks. I use Tanqueray London Dry Gin and Cocchi sweet vermouth."

"Cocchi. That's Italian vermouth, isn't it?"

"It is. You know your liquor," Dane laughs. "Well, if you need anything else, wave at me. It looks like it's getting busy in here."

"I'll do that, thanks."

Dane spots Mitre standing at the bar and hurries over to him. "What do you need?"

"I need two chardonnays, a merlot, two rieslings, one old-fashioned, and two whiskey sours."

"You got it." Dane pulls the stemware from an overhead rack and the other glasses from the counter. He hums as he makes the drinks.

Mitre places a stack of napkins on his tray and looks at Dane. "Did you bartend anywhere else besides your grandparents' restaurant in Bulgaria and here?"

"I did. I worked as a bartender at an upscale steak and seafood restaurant while attending university in England."

"Huh. I didn't know you went to university there. I assumed you went to university back home in Bulgaria." Mitre takes the glasses of wine as Dane sets them on the counter. "So why England?"

"My father. He's British and pushed me to go to university there so I could follow in his footsteps. He paid for it, so I went. I worked the whole time I was in school, though, so I could support myself. That way, I didn't feel like I was taking advantage of his generosity." Dane pauses, inwardly berating himself for being so engrossed in mixing the drinks he wasn't paying attention to what he was saying. Mentioning his British father and the little tidbit about his life in England, especially after going to such lengths to keep it private, wasn't smart. Discussions around those topics could prompt the asking of questions he was unwilling to answer. And Dane couldn't risk revealing his identity. He would have to be more careful going forward so he didn't get overly comfortable and slip up again.

"Your father is British. I didn't know that either." Mitre looks puzzled for a moment, eyeing Dane with an odd expression. "I always assumed you acquired your British accent from living there the last few years. I guess that isn't completely the case. So how did you end up with the last name Petrov if your father is British?"

Dane cringes, cursing himself for opening his mouth. "It's a long story and not important." He waves his hand, brushing offthe question. The last thing he needs is for anyone to find out he's using his mother's maiden name, not his legal surname. Finished with the old-fashioned, he sets the glass on the bar. "Here's the last one. You can take them."

Mitre picks up his tray and turns to leave. He hesitates, glancing at Dane over his shoulder, his brow furrowed. Then he shrugs and walks away.

Damn, that was close. Too close.

Dane expels a frustrated breath, turning when he hears a group of voices coming through the sliding glass door. It's Brittany, the four ladies, and their gentleman friend. Brittany beams at him, instantly brightening his mood.

"Good evening." Brittany's voice is saucy as she walks past the bar, her fingers grazing the countertop as she trails behind the others.

"And a good evening to you, too." He grins, happy to see her. The faintest scent of vanilla wafts to his nose.

Her presence, voice, scent—everything about her—gets his pulse racing, a fire burning inside him. He rakes her with his gaze as she joins the others at a seating area by the window. She's stunning, wearing a burgundy cocktail dress with a low neckline and lace sleeves. He wishes he could go to her, take her in his arms, and tell her how much he misses her when she isn't near. But that would cause a scene and get him in trouble.

Beckett's voice suddenly fills the lounge, disrupting Dane's thoughts. He glances across the room, spotting Beckett standing by the piano with a microphone in his hand.

"Good evening, everyone. We'll start our modified version of Family Feud in a few minutes. If you'd like to play but don't have a team, grab some of your fellow passengers and create one. You can also join one of the existing teams…if they let you." Beckett chuckles and scans the lounge. "I'll need all the teams to select a captain and a team name." A menagerie of voices fills the lounge.Beckett waits a few minutes, then turns the microphone back on. "Can I have all the team captains raise their hands?"

Dane scans the room. Brittany's hand is in the air, along with six others. There's laughter coming from somewhere in the center of the lounge, and then another hand goes up.

"This is turning out better than I expected," Beckett laughs. "All right, we have eight teams. I take that back. We have nine teams since there's another hand going up in the back." He turns to the group of players next to the piano. "You'll be team number one. What did you pick for your team name?"

A woman in a red blouse calls out, "The Boozy Boomers."

"Luis," Beckett calls out, catching him as he joins Dane behind the bar. "You and Dane need to keep an eye on this group. I'm going to assume they'll need more alcohol."

There's a ripple of laughter around the room.

"Okay, team number two. Give us your name." Beckett points to a group sitting against the window behind team number one.

"Coco Colada," a middle-aged woman with dark hair calls out.

---