The Bucket List

14.2 The Bartender

Nicholai is a terrible bartender.

"You're doing great," I call through my hands. I'm sitting directly in front of his station, which puts me dangerously close to the splash zone, but the view is...

My gaze snags on the exposed length of his arms.

Worth it, I think as he knocks over a tin of ice, flecks of water speckling my face. So, so worth it.

He cuts me a narrow-eyed look brimming with suspicion at the compliment. But he doesn't have the time to linger. Not with customers pressing in to my left and right, waving bills back and forth as if that might better catch his eye. And it does. He blinks at the multitude of eager customers—and the flash of their phones as they record the heir's look of bewilderment at the spectacle of it all.

I would help him, if only he'd let me. But he's determined to prove himself, so I sit and watch while he works, his attention flitting this way and that, snagging on every little distraction. Even like this—hair unkempt and sweat at his brow—he's breathtaking. I watch the movement of his hands, the rise and fall of his broad shoulders. Anything to avoid making direct eye contact.

Because when I look at him, all I can smell is the sea and the sweet perfume of sunscreen, and all I can feel is the glide of his skin beneath my fingertips, kissed by the warmth of the sun high overhead. And these are dangerous thoughts. Horrid, awful thoughts that do nothing to quell my desire. I could have had more of it. More of him. But I made a decision that day in the kitchen, even when he asked me to stay, because I knew it was the right thing to do.

Watching him now, I don't know what to think.

"This is exhausting," Nicholai groans when the crowd thins out, bending over to catch his breath.

TJ claps him on the shoulder. "You're not half-bad."

"No," Nicholai agrees darkly. "I'm worse."

TJ and I share a grin. "I think he's earned a shot," I say.

Nicholai immediately straightens. "Yes."

"You're taking one, too," TJ orders, jabbing a finger in my direction. And then, to his sister: "Gabs!"

"Another one?" Gabby gripes, confirming my theory that both twins have been sneaking drinks behind the bar. She joins our huddle somewhat grudgingly, arms crossed.

TJ mixes up a round of Jager Bombs with expert precision. And they must be working their magic, because Gabby actually manages a smile as he hands out our cups.

"Alright." TJ raises his drink. "To family."

Gabby agrees with a tentative look in my direction. I smile in earnest. A white flag.

"Family." I try to convey everything that word means in my smile.

Nicholai knocks his glass against ours. I wonder then what he's thinking. If the face of his dead brother haunts him, even now. "Sem'ya."

# # #

We close down the bar with what TJ dubs plenty of time to spare. When I ask what exactly he means by that, he grins. The look in his eye is one I've seen a hundred times before. A thousand times.

"This night is about to go straight to hell," I warn Nicholai as we slip through the back door. Just ahead, Gabby laughs. We share a look and that, too, is familiar and glorious and thank fuck, I'm so happy to have her back.

"Hell is my happy place," Nicholai tells me, his words somewhat leaden with liquor.

Damn TJ and his Jager Bombs.