Blame It on the Bikini - By Natalie Anderson Page 0,2

Mya Campbell was driven to be the best.

Her phone sat snug against her thigh in the side pocket of her skinny jeans, switched to mute so it didn’t interrupt her shift. The duty manager, Drew, frowned on them texting or taking calls behind the bar. Fair enough. They were too busy anyway. So she had no idea whether Lauren had got the pic or what she’d thought of it. Though, given Lauren was welded to her mobile, Mya figured there’d be an answer when she got a spare second to check. She grinned as she lined twelve shiny new shot glasses on the polished bar, thinking of Lauren’s face when she saw it. She’d be appalled—she’d always shrieked over Mya’s more outrageous ‘statement’ outfits.

‘Come on, gorgeous, show us your stuff!’

Mya glanced up at the bunch of guys crowded round her end of the bar. A stag party, they’d insisted she pour the trick shots for them, not her sidekick, Jonny, down the other end of the bar. She didn’t get big-headed about it—truth was Jonny had taught her the tricks and she was still working towards acing him on them. It was just these guys wanted the female factor.

She’d mixed three for them already and now was onto the finale. She enjoyed it—nothing like lighting up a dozen flaming sambucas for a bunch of wild boys who were megaphone loud in their appreciation. She flicked her wrist and poured the liquid—a running stream into each glass. Then she met the eyes of the groom and flashed him a smile.

‘Are you ready?’ she teased lightly.

The guys nodded and cheered in unison.

She held the lighter to the first shot glass and gently blew, igniting the rest of the line of glasses down the bar. The cheers erupted. She glanced at Jonny and winked. She’d only recently mastered that one, and she knew he was standing right where one of the fire extinguishers was kept.

Grinning, she watched them knock the shots back and slam the glasses onto the bar. Some barracked for more but she already knew the best man had other ideas. Her part in their debauched night was over; they were onto their next destination—she didn’t really want to know where or how much further downhill they were going to slide.

‘A thank-you kiss!’ one of the guys called. ‘Kiss! Kiss!’

They all chanted.

Mya just held up the lighter and flicked it so the flame shot up. She waved it slowly back and forth in front of her face. ‘I wouldn’t want you to get hurt,’ she said with a teasing tilt of her head.

They howled and hissed like water hitting a burning element. Laughing—mostly in relief now—she watched them mobilise and work their way to the door. And that was when she saw him.

Brad High-School-Crush Davenport.

For a second, shock slackened every muscle and she dropped the lighter. Grasping at the last moment to stop it slipping, she accidentally caught the hot end. Damn. She tossed it onto the shelf below the bar and rubbed the palm of her hand on the half-apron tied round her waist. The sharp sting of that small patch of skin didn’t stop her from staring spellbound schoolgirl-fashion at her former HSC. But that was because he was staring right at her as if she were the one and only reason he’d walked into the bar.

Good grief. She tried to stop the burn spreading to her belly because it wasn’t right that one look could ignite such a reaction in her.

Back in the days when she’d believed in fairy tales, she’d also believed Brad would have been her perfect prince. Now she knew so much better: a) there were no princes, b) even if there were, she had no need for a prince and c) Brad Davenport was nowhere near perfect.

Although to be fair, he certainly looked it. Now—impossible though it might be—he looked more perfect than ever. All six feet three and a half inches of him. She knew about the half because it was written in pencil on the door-jamb in the kitchen leading to the butler’s sink, along with Lauren’s height and those of their mum and dad—one of the displays of Happy Familydom his mother had cultivated.

Topping the modelicious height, his dark brown hair was neatly trimmed, giving him a clean-cut, good-boy look. He was anything but good. Then there were the eyes—light brown maple-syrup eyes, with that irresistible golden tinge to them. With a single look that he’d perfected at an eyebrow-raising young