Lena. Smitty’d roll over in his grave if he saw how you turned his nice little watering hole into a tourist trap full of northerners who want to get wasted away again.”
“Smitty, God rest his soul, ought to roll over in his grave, for the debt he left me in.” She flipped the service door up and slipped behind the bar, dumping the empties into the recycle bin. “And I see the transformation from bait bar to tourist trap hasn’t stopped you from swilling one dollar AmberBocks every Friday night, Gumbo.”
“Well, a man’s gotta drink after a hard day of trawlin’.” He took a swig to underscore the statement while Maggie headed to the cash register to ring up the pitcher of draft she’d just served.
She hip-nudged Brandy out of the way, but not hard enough to make the superskilled bartender splash a drop of the tequila she was pouring. “Don’t forget the lost shaker of salt.”
Brandy gave her a wry smile and lifted the tequila bottle. “Every time that tune comes on we sell more of this shit, and the markup is pure profit, partner. That song is what you would call a good sign.”
“Ka-ching !” Maggie exclaimed as the drawer popped open.
Brandy turned, expertly threading her fingers around six shot glasses. “Oh, and speaking of good signs. Look who just came in. Your boyfriend’s back.”
Maggie froze, a little thrill tickling her tummy. “Don’t care.”
“You lie, Lena Smith.”
“I never lie, Brandy Istre, and you know that. But I’m not looking, because I don’t care.”
“You should look, because, whoa, he is even hotter than the last two nights he’s been in here, checking you out like you were his favorite library book.”
Maggie rolled her eyes, closing the cash register with a quiet click. “Whatev, as Quinn would say.”
“In case you change your mind, he’s sitting down at the two-top by the window,” Brandy continued. “He’s looking at the table tent as if he’s actually considering a dollar beer, but we know he’s an import kind of guy. Look at those clothes, all Ralph Lauren expensive. I bet he came down in his yacht. Yep, he’s looking out at the marina, running his hand through that dirty-blond hair, and over his jaw.” Brandy dipped a little closer to whisper the rest of her play-by-play. “I don’t think he shaved today. He wants your poor li’l thighs to get all rosy with a rash.”
Maggie laughed, hiding her weak knees and high hopes.
The last two nights he’d been there, he’d just ordered a Heineken, nursed it, and then left. But the entire time, he’d watched her. No, he pinned her with eyes the same green as the bottle she served him, making her tense and prickly and . . . aware.
She turned from the cash register, and looked right at him. Another lightning bolt rocked her, this time right between those poor li’l thighs.
Holy mother of all that mattered, the man was edible.
Neither one looked away, and Maggie could have sworn those perfect lips tipped in a smile. She managed to breathe—no mean feat.
“Shots are up, Mrs. Smith!”
His eyes flickered when Brandy called out the order.
Maggie instantly transferred her attention to the service bar, where Brandy stood with a hand on her narrow hip and a smug smile on her elfin features.
“Why’d you have to call me that?” Maggie scowled as she ducked under the bar to get to the other side.
“Thought you didn’t care.”
“Well, there’s no reason to make him think I’m still married.”
“Sure there is—now you have to talk to him. Get your butt over there and tell him you’re a widow.”
Maggie shot her a vile look and scooped the tray full of shots in one hand. “Look, if I want to get a good look at his ass as he runs screaming out the door, I don’t need to mention my dearly departed husband. The teenager at home usually does the trick.”
“The teenager is at his uncle’s fishing for two days . . . and two nights.” Brandy leaned her whole body over the service bar to make her point. “And the merry widow hasn’t had sex in four years.”
“Four years?” Gumbo Jim slammed down his bottle and let his jaw drop. “Lena, that’s a damn sin. Smitty would’ve wanted you to get laid once in a while. You’re a beautiful woman, for God’s sake.”
Next to Jim, Tommy Sloane inched over and pointed at her. “You know, a hymen can grow back. I read that in Penthouse.”