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I walk over to join him, hand off one of the steaming mugs, and take a seat. I lean over and read the title.
“The Venetian Betrayalby Steve Berry. Any good?”
He sets the book on the arm of the chair and takes a sip of the hot cocoa.
“Yep. I love a good adventure story,” he says, then taps the top of the book, “and this one has Alexander the Great in it. What’s not to love?”
“Alexander the Great. That is something.”
“Yeah, I’m a bit of a history buff, and Berry is great at weaving historical facts with fictionalized mystery. What about you? I bet you’re a classics fan.”
I shrug.
“Oh, do I see a blush?” He leans into me and whispers, “Closeted erotica freak?”
I raise an eyebrow at him and purse my lips. “First of all, women who enjoy a good erotic read aren’t freaks. Second, Regency is more my speed.”
“Regency?”
“Yeah, like you, I enjoy history, and a historical romance with lords and ladies or dukes and viscounts is my cup of tea. I brought quite a few with me from Colorado,” I explain.
“Ah, makes sense. You fantasize about being a princess in the Elizabethan era.”
“Don’t presume to have a clue what I fantasize about,” I correct.
His amused eyes slide to mine. “Do tell.”
“Sometimes, it’s the notorious rake or the nefarious pirate that does it for me.”
He chuckles. “The bad boy. It’s always the bad boy.”
“Mmm, we sure do like a bad boy. In our books at least.”
“How bad we talkin’?”
I glance at him over my mug. “The badder, the better.”
He opens his mouth to say something, but before he gets the chance, we hear howls of laughter behind us.
I look over my shoulder to see Scooter, Clay, and Joanna coming down the path from the resort.
“We’ll continue this conversation later,” Morris whispers against my ear as he stands to greet them.
“You guys missed the best part. Garrett came up to the bar and jumped on the piano. He played while we all sang. He even took requests,” Scooter informs us.
Crap.
“I’ve been at enough impromptu Garrett Tuttle sing-alongs in my life,” Morris states.
“I bet you have,” Scooter says as he trips over his own feet, and Clay grabs his elbow to steady him.
“You’ll never make it up that ladder to your bed,” Clay says.
Scooter points at him. “You are correct, sir. I think I’ll be passing out on the couch tonight.”
He trips again.
“I swear, if you break a leg or fall and get a concussion, I’m gonna beat your ass, Scooter,” I shout just as Morris makes it to them and proceeds to help Clay walk Scooter up the steps.
