Chapter 3

3

I was running late. Story of my life.

“You’re late,” Leroy said.

“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 But tourism was a key driver of Dominica’s economy, and no one here wanted outdated views to spoil a good holiday.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 because your closet 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.

“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 was totally 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. “A proper one.”

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 resort were 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 female physique 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 into your office 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.”

“Is he.” Not a question, more a thoughtful statement, and I flashed back to Logan’s little theory about how happy employees made for happy guests. The Richard school of thought wasn’t diametrically opposed—nothing that crass. It simply didn’t relate the two aspects.

He was currently detailing why Frankie’s lineup of syrups looked unappealing to guests and that it should disappear into a cabinet. I glanced from the aggravated set of Frankie’s shoulders to Logan, a curious smile propped into a corner of his lips. Hmm, now there was a thought. Would Logan play ball? I turned it over in my mind for a second before I let my mouth curve into a sly grin.

“Say, Logan—how do you feel about the comfort of your bed?”

And I’d just sounded like I was making a pass at him. That part hadn’t occurred to me until the words were out. Bright mischief sparked in his eyes, but he sobered before I could even think to clarify. His sharp gaze flicked from me to Richard, and back. “That mattress is too damn soft. And my pillow, man. Had me waking up with a crick in my neck this morning.”

He was quick, I had to give him that. I smiled. “Seems like it warrants a discussion with the manager. ”

Frankie’s voice rose clear over the house remix of a familiar pop song just as Logan widened his eyes, all innocence. “You’re saying I should bring my best entitled guest persona?”

“It’s either that or I accidentally pour some G&T on my boss. I kinda like having a job.” I nodded my chin at Richard. “So, you know. Knock yourself out.”

“Don’t mind if I do.” Logan rolled back his shoulders and firmed his expression. With a haughty smile, he strolled past me and towards where Richard was leaning against the bar. Logan tapped him on the shoulder. “Excuse me?” Nothing in his voice suggested he was sorry. “Name’s Logan Fox. There’s a problem with my cabin. Milo here”—a dismissive wave at me—“said you’re the manager of this place?”

He was a decent actor. But now that I knew what to look for, I caught him shifting his stance, his hard gaze meeting Richard’s for just a moment before he let it sweep over the bar.

Richard straightened like a string puppet, his face a mask of forced cheer. “Richard Berring, yes—that’s me. We pride ourselves on exceeding expectations day by day. So why don’t we sit down and see how we can fix this?”

“Let’s,” Logan said briskly. He turned to lead the way without bothering to check whether Richard was following. For a beat, my attention clung to Logan’s broad shoulders and the perky swell of his ass—nothing wrong with a little window shopping.

I averted my eyes just in time to catch the barely suppressed outrage that twitched around Richard’s eyes. He cast a brief, scrutinizing glance back at me. A flicker of something—suspicion? Annoyance?—passed over his face before he turned his attention back to Logan.

Yeah, man. Not so fun when you’re the one getting bossed around, huh?

I bit my cheek against a smile.

Around ten thirty, things slowed to the point where Frankie could handle the bar alone, so I called it a night. The wistful notes of a saxophone trailed me as I followed a footpath lit in a dim golden glow. Through the thick tangle of trees, guest cabins glimmered like distant stars, among them one I’d once shared with my parents. Before.

Nia was sprawled on the couch when I made it back, TV on mute, her phone in one hand, the other reaching into a bag of chips.

“I thought you quit,” I said because we’d made a deal to encourage healthy habits in each other.

“Like you didn’t have one of Luis’s pastries this morning.”

“Just doing my bit in supporting the local economy.”

She huffed, but her comeback got derailed when her phone lit up. While she read the message, I kicked off my sandals, then shoved her feet off the couch to make space for myself.

I tipped my head back and stifled a yawn. “Your sister?”

“Yeah.” Nia typed out a response before she continued, relief coating her tone. “Seems her levels are finally back to normal.”

“Hey, that’s great.” I nudged our feet together. “So, you figure out yet how you’re gonna con Richard into approving a holiday?”

Nia nudged back. “No. But Meghan isn’t due for another month—I’ve still got time. Wouldn’t be such a problem if Richard stopped dragging his feet and finally hired us that third person.”

“Anything to make your life difficult. And mine, by extension.”

“Sharing is caring.”

Easy silence settled while some show zoomed in on a woman’s dramatic expression. It’d be smart to turn in soon, long day and all, only that would require getting off this couch. And for all that it stemmed from roughly the time when Romans had ruled the world, it was really fucking comfortable. It had an ass-shaped dent with my name on it.

“How’s Katie doing?” Nia asked after a minute. She must have jumped from her own family to the only person who still came anywhere near close for me .

“Busy,” I said. “Kicked out some guy she was seeing, but the dive center is thriving.”

“You could visit her sometime.” Nia’s tone was deliberately light, and it wasn’t the first time she’d suggested a trip back home. I’d always shot her down.

“Look, it’s… Not right now, okay?”

For a moment, it looked as though Nia would let it go. Then she shook her head and twisted to face me on the couch. The glow of the TV played on her features. “It’s been three years, Milo.”

I managed to hold her gaze for a beat, then dropped mine to the floor. “Flights are expensive. And it’s not like... Katie is busy, like I said. And there’s no one else left, so...”

“She’d love to see you.” Nia curled warm fingers around my elbow. “And you could always, you know... I mean, they’re your parents. If you just tried ?—”

“No.” I hoped it sounded final and let a smile follow to show I wasn’t mad. Just tired. After a brief skim of my hand down her shoulder, I got to my feet. “I’m off to bed, yeah? Have a good sleep.”

Sadness flickered across her face, then she returned my smile. “You too.”

On impulse, I leaned down for a hug. “Thank you, okay? I appreciate the concern. But I’m okay—really. Life’s good.”

“You put up a ‘Live, Laugh, Love’ sign, I’m gonna fire you.” She hugged me back, and I closed my eyes for a second, settling into the here and now. This was home, and I truly was okay.

Yeah, so I had a few ghosts lingering in the darker corners of my mind. But who didn’t?