Chapter 3
Cal
The first rule of bartending in a small beach town is that if a woman walks into your bar alone, wearing a wedding dress and mascara down her cheeks, you don’t ask questions. Something’s already gone sideways. You pour her a drink and keep an eye on her. She needs a minute.
The whole bar seems to clock her at once.
Some make it more obvious than others. Conversations are cut off mid-sentence.
A few people straighten in their chairs so they can get a better look.
Every pair of eyes is on her. Marina, the other bartender, glances at me from the other end of the bar, brows lifted in silent question.
I give her a small shrug. I have no idea who this mystery woman is.
And yet, something in me stirs anyway. I’m drawn to her. Not in a flirt-with-the-customers kind of way. More of a protective way.
That’s new, Cal.
The woman looks tired, like she’s reached the end of whatever road brought her here and decided this is the place she needs for now, and I get that. This bar has a way of drawing in nearly everyone who comes to Coconut Beach. Hell, it caught me in its net and dragged me in when I was lost.
Everyone knows everyone here, and if you’re a tourist, we know it.
We look out for everyone and consider this a safe space.
I’m not sure what her name or story are, but I’m going to make sure she’s taken care of here.
Marina, clearly reading my mind, nods to me as if she’ll do the same. It’s just what we do.
“Long day?” I ask.
The woman opens one eye. “You have no idea.”
Her phone lights up on the bar. She flips it face down as if she’s frustrated, without looking at it.
I slide a glass of water her way while I wait for her food order. She notices, and her shoulders ease just a little.
“Thank you,” she says quietly.
We make small talk, and I push a plate in front of her loaded down with a savory burger and greasy fries.
Nothing fancy. But it’s the kind of food that will fill you up if you’ve been drinking.
We like to feed people here when they drink.
Music, food, and alcohol are what we’re known for here at Cocktails & Chaos.
It’s that simple, pure purpose that makes working here so fulfilling.
I love running this bar, taking pride in every detail from taking care of the patrons all day and night to wiping off every sticky table at close.
There’s pride in what I do, and I can’t say that’s been the case for other jobs I’ve had.
I’m grateful for my friend, Jonah Black, who I manage the place for. He doesn’t like people much and runs a local fishing charter. We have an agreement. I run Cocktails & Chaos, and he pays me a nice salary. It gets me out of the house, and I get to meet people.
What he doesn’t know is I’d do it for free. Unlike Jonah, I genuinely love seeing new faces from all over, catching up with the regulars, and sharing inside jokes. It’s the energy I thrive on. The music, the vibes, the food.
She’s finished her drink and half of her water.
I’m about to ask her if she wants another one when her eyes meet mine.
They’re haunted and sad. A moment ago, she was laughing at my attempts to lighten the mood, but she’s not laughing anymore.
The mask is gone, revealing a heartbroken woman.
It makes my chest tighten. Helping people is in my blood.
I want to make her smile again. To shake off whatever shitshow she just came from and enjoy this little slice of heaven.
“You were right,” she says absently as she tears her gaze from mine to inspect the burger and fries in front of her. “This looks amazing.”
“My tips are very important to me,” I tease. “I’ll grab you more to drink. Let me know if you want extra ketchup or something.”
I casually check her out. Not in a creepy, pervy way.
I’m just curious about her situation. The wedding dress she’s wearing is wrinkled and a little ruined, like it’s already lived a life before it got here.
The hem is smudged. The buttons are holding on by pure will.
And damn, there are a lot of buttons. This dress looks like a torture device, and I wonder what made her choose it in the first place.
Her hair is beautiful. It’s long and blonde, falling in loose waves down her back, and her curls frame her face in that effortless way that looks soft and dangerous at the same time.
Not the time or place, man.
I glance up at her face, settling on her eyes once more.
They’re bright blue and look like they’ve been through enough today.
She certainly doesn’t need the bartender admiring her soft hair.
Her mouth is set in an expression as if she’s trying to be brave, but the occasional chin wobble gives her away.
Despite being fragile and tired after whatever the hell happened at her apparent wedding, I can tell there’s a strong woman underneath all that tulle and mascara.
Jewelry glints at her throat and ears, delicate and understated, like she doesn’t need help being noticed.
This woman is ritzy as fuck and confident in her jewelry selection.
It tells me she’s not from some small town around these parts.
She comes from money. You can tell a lot about a person and their accessories.
Bartending sure sharpens a man’s observational skills. Mine are certainly on point.
People stare at her because they can’t help it. I stare because something in my chest tightens every time she shifts her weight, exhales, or looks like she’s about to bolt.
Care to unpack that thought, Cal?
Maybe another time.
She looks like someone who ran hard and didn’t quite know where she was supposed to land. I’m glad she landed here.
“Eat,” I tell her. “You’ll feel better when you have some food in you.”
Finally, she does. Immediately, just inhales the food like it’s her last meal and moans in delight, and damn if that sound doesn’t shoot straight to my dick.
I shake my head. This is someone’s almost-wife.
She’s off limits. Every woman who comes into this bar is off-limits to me.
I don’t mingle business with pleasure. These days, I don’t even seek out pleasure. I’m focused on what I have going on.
But something about this woman is different.
I place another fresh water in front of her, and she looks at it, then me.
“Hydration,” I say with a wink. “We take it very seriously around here.”
A CeeLo Green song comes on, and she laughs. “I love this song.”
The laugh of hers is back and it warms me more than I’d like to admit.
She picks up the glass and drains half of it, needing it more than the food. Good sign.
I leave her to go check on a few regulars and even playfully thump one guy on the head for staring too long at the runaway bride. I know he means well, but there’s a sliver of protectiveness in me I can’t name right now.
A few minutes later, she leans across the bar to get my attention. “Hey.”
I saunter over, snapping a towel over my shoulder, and raise my eyebrows. “Yes?”
She hops off her stool. “Can you watch my drink and bag while I go to the restroom?”
“Yeah,” I say easily. “Of course.”
She shoves it across surface toward me, and I set it behind the bar. I also reach for her drink, too, tucking it safe behind me.
I watch her hobble in her heels, and for reasons I can’t explain, all I can think is that I’m glad whatever brought her here didn’t get to win. I hope somewhere there’s a groom regretting his life today. I know I would be if I lost a woman like her.
When she comes back, I hand her back her drink.
She eyes me like she’s reassessing me. “Are you always this nice to your patrons?”
I smile and say, “Life’s too short to be a dick.”
It comes out smooth, automatic. Then I realize I’m not flirting the way I usually would. This is different. She’s different. And I can’t explain it, but it feels like dangerous territory.
She slides back onto her stool, then glances behind her where a bachelorette party has begun staring and whispering in confusion. They are wearing matching shirts and wide eyes.
“I can’t imagine...”
“Do you think...”
She hears their not-so-quiet whispering and raises her glass to them. “I’m better off. Trust me.”
And I don’t doubt that. I glance down, and she’s still wearing a huge engagement ring. The kind that could buy whole islands if she were to sell it for cash. At least she’s not hurting for money.
She catches me staring, looks at her ring, then back at me. “I paid for that.”
I chuckle and continue to wipe down the bar. She’s blunt, outspoken, and it’s honestly refreshing. She’s kind of funny, too.
One of the bachelorette ladies gapes at her. “Did you get married today? Where’s your husband?”
She shakes her head. “No. And he’s probably off celebrating.”
Who the hell would celebrate losing a woman like her? Some men are idiots. I know because I am one.
Just then, DJ Jeff starts playing “Where Is My Husband” by RAYE. I shake my head at Jeff, and he laughs and shrugs. He loves to pick weird songs to play at the strangest times.
That seems to break the tension and I’m grateful for it. The group of women laugh, and she laughs with them. She seems funny, like she’s making the most of this day, but the defeat is still glimmering in her blue eyes.
The women in the bachelorette party beckon her to join them and make room for her. Introductions fly. Names I’ll never remember. Except one. Silvie. It’s a classic, beautiful name and suits her.
They compliment her dress, despite it looking like it’s seen better days, and one woman says it must be custom-made. Silvie shrugs. “You can have it if you want. I’m never getting married. Everything is over.”
Silvie turns back to me. “Okay, I need something less sweet for me, Mr. Bartender. I’ve had enough sex on the beach.”
I chuckle. “Got it.”
The group has more questions that she dodges with practiced ease.