I looked down at the blue margarita.
“The Shifty Shark?” I asked.
She sighed like I had personally wounded her. “I hate you a little for being right about the name.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I could.”
“You won’t.”
She stepped into my side, bumped her hip against mine, and lifted her cup.
“To my bar,” she said.
I touched my cup to hers. “To your bar.”
“And to men who ask permission before using teeth.”
I smiled. “To terrifying women with receipt folders.”
She drank, then made a pleased little sound that tightened my grip on the cup.
Outside, the last of Sal’s engine noise was gone.
Nella leaned against me under the neon shark. The top-right drawer was locked. The counter still needed washing. Beyond the boardwalk, the ocean moved in the dark, close enough to hear and not close enough to call me back.
She tipped her face up to mine. “And to your terrible new life choices.”
I set my drink down, cupped her face, and kissed her until the smile softened against mine.
Fins, teeth, monsters—I knew those.
What came next with Nella was the mystery I wanted.
Epilogue
By seven on Christmas Eve, I had cranberry sugar in my hair, fake snow in my cleavage, and a line of tourists ordering Santa Shark margaritas like the North Pole had personally requested tequila.
Bite Me Boardwalk Bar & Bites glittered red, green, and ridiculous. Tinsel wrapped the chalkboard. Palm trees outside wore net lights. A plastic reindeer guarded the host stand with haunted courage. On the boardwalk, every business had joined the holiday bash, which meant three competing speakers played three different versions of “Feliz Navidad” and nobody on this strip understood peace on earth.
I stood behind the bar in a red Mrs. Claus sundress, a white-trimmed apron, candy-cane earrings I absolutely hadn’t approved while sober, and glittery flat sandals already losing the war against spilled pomegranate syrup. My hair was pinned up with a tiny mistletoe clip Carmela had mailed in a box labeled OPEN THIS OR I WILL KNOW.
The drinks were moving fast. Cranberry-pomegranate margaritas crossed the bar with sugar rims and rosemary sprigs. Coconut-white coladas followed in plastic cups rimmed with crushed peppermint. The blue holiday specials came last, snowy foam and cherry hat picks making tourists point their phones before they tipped.
At the kitchen pass, Mari slid out a tray of pizzelle snowflakes and rainbow-cookie bites. “If anyone asks whether the cookies are gluten-free, tell them Christmas has boundaries.”
“Christmas has invoices,” I said, and grabbed the next shaker.
Then the crowd near the front door cheered.
I didn’t need to turn.
The man in the red Santa jacket, white linen pants, and hat pulled low over dark hair was six-four, unfair, and carrying a cashout tablet instead of a sack.
Nico Torretti, reformed loan shark, current bookkeeping menace, and my personal holiday problem, had arrived.
He checked the line, found me, and smiled.
