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"Haven't seen you since graduation, girlie. You back on the island for good? Or you passing through and headed back to Chicago soon?"
I study him, wondering why he's come here, how he knew I was tending bar, if he's aware of what his mere presence does to me. His old nickname for me—girlie—sends a rippleof warmth through my body. His smoldering stare turns the ripples into crashing waves of fire.
Goodness, enough with the mixed metaphors about sex. This isn't one of my romance novels that I read in the tub on Sunday nights. It's real life, which has been pretty rotten lately.
In fact, Damien walking into the bar might be the best thing that's happened in the last month. The most visually appealing thing, that’s for sure.
"Came home because Mom had a medical thing," I say in a breezy voice, trying to ignore the seriousness of her situation. It's not the info to unload on someone I haven't seen in a decade. I pretend to buff a spot on the counter with the rag. "She needed comfort, the bar needed help, and here I am. Came back from Chicago. For a few months, anyway. You? Saw your brother Tate the other day at the hardware store, and he said you were a military contractor."
And I'd been thinking about Damien hard ever since. Tate neglected to mention his brother was coming home. Had I known that, I might have worn something around the island other than faded jean shorts, frayed tank tops, and questionably clean hoodies.
He nods once. "Something like that."
"One of those if-you-tell-me-you'll-have-to-kill-me kind of things?"
"Exactly."
"Then I won't ask, so you won't have to tell and kill me." We grin stupidly at each other. "What would you like to drink?"
I extend my left hand and place it flat on the worn wooden bar. He glances down at my fingers, and his eyes widen and flash. Did it register that I'm not wearing a ring? Goosebumps race up my arm. I snatch my hand away, and he looks up.
"Did I see Cigar City Maduro on tap?"
"You did."
"I'll take a pint of that, thanks."
"You got it." I move aside to pour his beer, acutely mindful that he's staring at me. Hyper-aware that my skin feels tight, a bit too hot. Lamenting the fact that my tank top is too thin and my bra doesn't hide, well, anything.
Memories of us as teenagers come rushing into my mind fast and hard, so intense that a wave of unreality crashes into me. I have to pause and grip the cooler for a few seconds. I slide it open, grateful for the burst of cool air, which dries the perspiration on my forehead. I pretend to check for inventory, shuffling the bottles back and forth. Maduro...Maduro... The way he looked at me made my stomach tighten in a way it hasn't since high school.
He wanted a draft, not a bottle. Crap.
Push the past back where it belongs.
"How's your mom comin' along?" Bernice's voice, loud and raspy, jolts me out of my thoughts. "I went to visit her yesterday, and she seemed down."
I stifle a sigh and slide the cooler closed. This isn't what I want to talk about now, not with Damien sitting there. "Mom's doing fine. Doctors say she's recovering on schedule."
"Double mastectomy." Bernice shakes her head. "That's a hell of a surgery to have." Bernice sputters a few more choice swear words. So much for keeping family business to myself. And so much for a brief respite from the poop sandwich the universe has steadily served up these past couple of months.
Ah, heck. Damien probably already knows about Mom anyway, because there are no secrets on Paradise Beach. Especially with people like Bernice around. She's the secretary at the local police station and has a mind like a trap.
She's a legend on the island, one of those gals who probably wore a neon-colored thong bikini and feathered hair back in the 80s. Now her skin's deeply tanned leather, and herlegs are a little too thin. She's wearing a hot pink windbreaker, white shorts, and a matter-of-fact expression.
"Mom says she'll return to work in a month or so, but I'm trying to get her to rest as much as possible." I take a thin inhale and grab a pint glass, holding it a little too tight as I glance at Damien.
He stares at a napkin on the bar and bites his full bottom lip, as if he's embarrassed about what he just heard. I'm so thrown by his presence and talk of Mom that I've already forgotten his order.
"You wanted Maduro, right?" I ask breezily, trying to gloss over the fact that my short term memory has gone to pieces. Divert the conversation away from all medical issues. Divert, divert, divert.
"That's right."
Pouring his beer takes eons because of the frothy head. Probably a good thing, taking a pause after that mention of Mom and her cancer.
I set the pint in front of him and smile. "You starting the night here, then going to the mainland to one of the clubs? Or you headed over to the Square Grouper for the live music?"
His gaze goes from my eyes, to my mouth, and down my body. "Don't plan on going anywhere but here tonight."
