The Summer Fling (Steamy Shorts #36)

Chapter 1

LOGAN

"No offense, but this tastes like a wet rag." I swill the drink around my mouth once and spit into the bin. "Is this what I pay you for? I don't think so."

I set Eli's latest creation on the bar, aptly called Saltwater Funeral, because it would most likely send me to an early grave, and push it toward him. The thing is bright green and smells like I'm about to meet my maker in five seconds tops.

"It's a green tea martini with fresh mint and—"

"We want our customers happy, Eli. This will do the opposite of that."

Eli grins and dumps the drink down the sink. "Fine, fine. You're such a critic. I'll stick to the classics then."

I'm about to tell him exactly what I think of his bartending experiments when she walks in.

We're in an open area, so it makes little sense that her very presence sucks the oxygen in the space.

But that's exactly what she does.

The glass in my hand goes still. My pulse spikes, heart beats double time.

Dark, shoulder-length hair, all messy waves that look like she's been running her hands through it. The thought of doing it myself slams into me before I can stop it, and something hot twists in my gut.

She scans the room, looking for a table, and when she turns, I get the full picture. Jesus. Curves that would make a saint reconsider his vows. Full hips in shorts that should be illegal, a pink tank top that's not hiding a damn thing. The way the fabric moves with her—I can't look away.

Her legs go on forever, freckles scattered across her shoulders like stars I want to map with my tongue. They disappear down her chest under that tank top, and I'm already wondering how far they go.

Just when I think I can't feel any more unmoored, she looks toward the bar, and her eyes lock with mine.

Blue.

Bright, clear blue like the water when it's so perfect you'd paddle out in a hurricane just to get in it. Full lips that would look so good wrapped around my—

Goddammit. What is this? Where did this come from? Why the fuck am I acting like this?

The world tilts. Everything I thought I knew about want, about need, about the difference between looking and needing to touch—it all rewrites itself in the space of a heartbeat.

Fuck.

I'm staring. I know I'm staring because Eli elbows me in the ribs.

"You're gonna break the marble."

I look down. My knuckles are white, gripping the edge of the bar. "What?"

"Stop looking at the woman. The one you've been eye-fucking for the past thirty seconds. You'll scare her away."

I grab a towel and wipe my hands because I need to keep myself busy. My self-control, something I've always been proud of, is fracturing beneath a pressure I do not recognize. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Sure you don't. Should I get you a napkin for the drool? Second thought, maybe a bowl."

She finds a table on the patio and drops her beach bag beside her chair. No ring. A small tote bag. One towel. Hmm. Interesting. I've been in business long enough to know what kind of tourist she is.

She's alone, and every instinct I have is telling me to walk over there and introduce myself.

But I don't. She's here to relax, not get hit on by a guy who owns a bar. The island gets enough tourists who think vacation means every woman is fair game. The last thing I want is to intrude on her peace.

Instead, I watch her from behind the bar like some kind of creep. She orders a drink—something with rum and fruit that matches her pink top. When Eli brings it over, the woman laughs at something he says. I love Eli. He's been my best friend since high school, and he's like a brother to me.

But I'd be lying if I said it didn't irk me just a bit that he's the one making her laugh.

That should be me. Apparently, it bothers me enough that the next half hour is a blur.

I've signed off on a delivery I didn't check, approved something I didn't read, and spent time pretending the draft list I memorized is suddenly fascinating. All because a tourist with freckles and blue eyes walked into my bar.

This is insane. I don't do this. I don't get distracted by customers, no matter how good they look in lace shorts. I sure as hell don't find the need to trace freckles with the tip of my tongue.

The fuck.

My eyes snag on her again when she shifts in her chair, tucking one leg under her, and the movement makes her tank top ride up just enough to show a strip of pale skin above her waistband.

My cock reacts immediately, getting hard enough that I have to adjust my position behind the bar.

Jesus Christ. So now I can't trust my own body?

"You're pathetic," Eli says, not looking up from the lime he's cutting.

"I'm working."

"You're stalking. If I asked you for a hundred percent raise, you would have said yes."

"Did you?"

"No, but I should have, and that's beside the point."

"Hey there, beautiful."

I look up to see some asshole in board shorts and Ray-Bans approaching her table. The kind of guy who wears sunglasses indoors and has probably never been on a board in his life. Probably named Chad or Brad or Kyle. Here on Daddy's money.

She looks up at him with a polite smile, but as I said, I've seen enough solo female tourists to know when someone doesn't want company. So many of them come to the island to relax and unwind, and these dude bros see that as an invitation.

Shore Thing—my bar slash restaurant—is a safe place. I repeat that to my staff and enforce it as much as I can. Women can come here, and they know they're safe. Anyone here, including me, is willing to jump in to help any time.

Her shoulders draw up, the smile she gives him switching from genuine to wary. She angles herself away from him, creating space.

Anyone with two eyes and half a brain can realize she doesn't want to chat with him.

But Chad or Brad or Kyle doesn't have half a brain. Instead of moving away and cutting his losses, he leans closer, closing that space right back up.

"You here alone? Mind if I join you?"

"Actually, I'm—"

"Come on, don't be like that. I'm harmless."

I'm not the only one watching. Security, Eli, and other staff swing their gazes to her.

The moment he drapes an arm over the back of her chair, I approach them, trying to look calm even though I'm raging on the inside. I am a civilized man, and I do not condone violence, but in this moment, I just want to smash my fist into that smug face of his.

The walk feels longer than it is, but I keep my pace easy. Casual. No rush. When you're 6'5", you don't have to hurry to make an impression. Chad or Brad or Kyle is at least a few inches shorter than me.

"Hey, man." I stop beside his table, close enough that he has to look up. "You're bothering my girl."

My first impression that Chad or Brad or Kyle doesn't have half a brain is confirmed when the space between his eyebrows scrunches. He darts his eyes to her, then to me, then back to her. "You're with her?"

"Yeah, I wouldn't call her my girl if I wasn't. Would I?"

His eyebrows almost reach his hairline as he nods slowly. With one more longing glance at her, he shrugs. "Oh. Sorry. Didn't know she was taken."

He's gone in ten seconds.

She watches him leave before lifting a brow at me, the side of her mouth lifting. "Your girl?"

"Seemed like the fastest way to get him to leave."

She tilts her head, that smirk widening into a smile. "What if I'd wanted him to stay?"

"Did you?"

"God, no. I see enough of those types where I'm from."

I pull out the chair across from her. "Mind if I sit? Since I'm apparently your boyfriend now. But if you say no, it's fine."

She gestures to the chair. "Please. I should probably know your name if we're dating."

"Logan." I settle into the chair, and up close, she's even more dangerous. Those freckles are everywhere—scattered across her nose, her cheekbones, trailing down her neck, and her lips look so pillowy soft. "Logan Collins. I own this place."

"Hannah Hewitt. I'm renting a house up the beach for the week."

Hannah extends a hand to me, and I take it because it's the polite thing to do. What's not polite is the rush of blood down south. I dig my heels into the floor because I'm wearing shorts, and the moment I stand, everyone within twenty feet will see my erection. "Vacation?"

"More like emergency escape from my job before I set something on fire."

"What kind of job makes you want to commit arson?"

"Accounting." She rolls her eyes and sighs. "Spreadsheets, fluorescent lights, and the same beige walls for the past five years. I booked this trip after staring at a pivot table for three hours and realizing I couldn't remember the last time I felt excited about anything."

"Pivot tables will do that to you."

She laughs, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "You know what a pivot table is?"

"I own a business. I've been tortured by spreadsheets, too."

"But you escaped."

"Built my own prison instead. Better view, though."

Hannah glances around the bar, taking in the bamboo railings, curtains of bead strings by the kitchen, and boats past the shoreline. "Not much of a prison."

"The island knows me now. I can't get away with anything. Delilah from the grocery store still tells me to eat more vegetables, like I'm twelve. The mechanic's kid heard me curse after stubbing my toe, and the next thing I knew, he gave me a lecture about knowing how to regulate my emotions."

"How terrible. Must be so hard being surrounded by people who care."

"It's a nightmare. No one will let me drink myself to death in peace."

Hannah grins. "So if the island knows you, that means no one will mess with me now, right? Since I'm your girl and all."

"Exactly. You're under my protection now. Very official. If Delilah ever approaches you and starts talking about vegetables, just tell her I eat French fries every day. That should count for something."

Hannah smacks a hand on the table. "Wait, that is actually clever."

"I am a clever man, Hannah, if you haven't noticed yet."