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Sighing, I rub the spot between my brows with a knuckle, trying to dispel the ache I get each time I step foot in this establishment. If it didn’t have such a cultlike following on Aplana, there’s no way I’d allow it to continue on in the shape it’s in, but my mother always told me not to break things if they didn’t need fixing.
So it stays, in all its shitty glory.
“Why is Vincent behind the bar if he’s also supposed to be in the kitchen?” I ask.
Gwen shrugs. “We’re short-staffed. The new girl called in sick, so Blue’s been helping make drinks.”
The new girl called in? Fuck. “And who’s at the door, if Blue’s in here?”
“Um...” Gwen shifts, casting a quick look around the room as if searching for the six-foot, two-hundred-thirty pounds of muscle I hired to keep an eye on our patrons. Of course, having come in through the front, I already know the answer. “No one?”
Inhaling deeply, I try to tamp down the rage bubbling like a piping cauldron inside my gut. It burns, threatening violence; Gwen takes a step back from the table as if she can sense an impending explosion.
“I’d like to try the shellfish lasagna. Stick as close to my Italian roots as I can get, you know?” Elena says suddenly, sliding the menu across the table. “And I’d love a Diet Coke.”
Gwen studies Elena, raising an eyebrow. She doesn’t touch the menu, then swings her gaze back to me, as if waiting for approval.
Elena stiffens, her shoulders brushing my arm. “I don’t need Kallum’s permission to order food.”
My waitress’s eyes flash with a dull amusement at the use of my full name. “I’m just not sure you know how bad of a cook Vinny is—”
“I’ll be the judge of that.” Elena turns her chin up, scooting toward me in the booth until our thighs touch. Her warmth is like a live wire to my groin, the sweet scent of her shampoo intoxicating.
I’m not even sure if she’s aware of her migration, and I’m about to retreat to give her space, when her hand comes down over mine on the table, the diamond on her ring finger glittering in the bar light. Snorting softly, Gwen nods, swiping the menu and jotting something down on her notepad as she turns away.
As soon as her form disappears through the kitchen door, Elena snatches her hand back, shoving it beneath her thigh as she moves away. “How do you know that girl?”
“I’m her boss. Well, by proxy. Technically, my associate Jonas is her boss, but he works for me and I own half the bar, so...”
“You own a bar?” She glances around, tucking her dark hair behind her ear. “This bar?”
I smirk, scooting to my left, eating up the distance between us again, because for whatever reason, her absence leaves me feeling bereft.
“You didn’t think my work for your father was my only source of income, did you? How do you think I afford my home? My jet? My solitude?”
She frowns. “I guess I thought Papá paid well.”
I laugh, but it’s short and hollow. “Rafael doesn’t pay nearly enough.”
Pulling my phone from my pocket, I click my message app open, typing a quick one out to Jonas.
Me: Thanks for the heads-up that Violet called in today.
He replies within seconds.
Jonas: Piss off. I had no clue she wasn’t going to be there. Haven’t been in this week.
Dread funnels in my stomach, a storm of unease brewing. Pushing my tongue against my cheek, I pull up the text thread with my sister. The last six I’ve sent her have gone unanswered.
I knew luring her to the island with a bar-tending gig was a long shot, but it was the only way I could think to get her close enough to try talking to her again.
My last attempt had not gone well, hence the one-sided messages. Even when I reminded her that our association would solve all of her financial troubles, she still made it a point to stay away.
Though we share DNA, it’s clear my long-lost sister is at least somewhat aware of how to avoid the things that are bad for her.
Unlike my little wife, who’s staring daggers at Gwen from across the bar.
“Careful, little one,” I murmur, bending down to speak against the shell of Elena’s ear. “People might get the impression that you like me.”
