I count down the minutes until it’s my turn inside. I’ve been watching the door like a hawk for thirteen minutes to make sure Adonis hasn’t escaped. I’m not sure what I’m expecting to happen, but I don’t want this guy to disappear just yet.
“Rotation time.” Megan comes up behind me with a fresh tray of shots. “How did you do?”
“Terrible.” I grimace. “Let’s just say I’m not the Pied Piper of bar crawlers.”
Mischief dances in her eyes. “That stallion you managed to pull in is sitting at the bar scowling like we’ve given him a jail sentence.”
I grin. “But he’s still here, though.”
“Every ovary in the bar is quivering.” She grins back. “I never thought I’d see the day. A triple whammy. Body, face, voice.”
“Oh, were you talking to him?” I huff. Which is ridiculous because I’ve got no claim over him.
“I asked him what he would like to drink. He told me he wanted a beer and whiskey chaser and I swear I felt it in my gut.”
I roll my eyes but I know exactly what she’s talking about.
As I enter, I see him propped against the bar, sipping a beer and looking at his phone. Megan wasn’t wrong. Around him, women perform human mating strategies, such as standing unnecessarily close to him, accidentally bumping into him while dancing, laughing and talking loudly beside him to attract his attention.
His rigid posture tells me he’s not impressed with the venue. I laugh to myself; he really does stick out like a sore thumb here.
I resist the urge to approach him directly. Priorities first. I need to secure this job.
“It’s my turn to rotate,” I shout to the guy yelling orders behind the bar.
“Hurry up,” he barks, snapping his fingers.
I scurry under the counter behind the bar, where the guy in charge is flanked by three others, all backpackers by the looks of things. “This is your scanner. Each drink has a barcode above the optic, see? Swipe the barcode, then open the till and swipe it here. Soft drinks added are a flat one euro. Keep to the left section of the bar.”
That sounds easy-ish.
I scan a sea of impatient raucous faces shouting orders. I don’t know where to start.
The intense blue eyes at the end of the bar are the ones that draw me. He shakes his head, grimacing. I smile back, flustered, mouthing I’m sorry.
I take the order from the guy who shouted the loudest, asking for ten shots of tequila. He’s the same guy that was sick outside. Flustered, I search the spirits, looking for tequila. Another bartender whizzes by carrying five drinks like she has octopus limbs. How are they working at the speed of light? Oh God, this really is an art form.
“Get a move on, love,” the tequila guy yells, leaning across the bar. He is part of a group of lads banging their hands on the bar like drums.
Fumbling, I move bottles out of the way until I find tequila. My elbow knocks a shot glass to the ground. I’m so not cut out for this. I clumsily pour the tequila, spilling more on the bar than in the shot glasses.
Meanwhile, the group of lads discuss my breasts like I have no eyes or ears. Yet somehow I feel ten times more naked when I lock eyes with the hot grump at the corner of the bar. Tequila guy grunts, hands me the cash, and takes the tray of shots.
I look over to see Adonis studying his phone, bored. Shit, he looks ready to escape.
My face heats as I walk towards him. “How’s the drink?”
“Like piss.” He exhales heavily. “I thought a beer would be a safe choice. Nope.”
A giggle accidentally escapes me. Act cool, woman! “Thanks for braving it. What’s your name?”
“Tristan,” he says after a beat.
I glance at his ring finger. No ring and no tan line either. Girlfriend perhaps? How could a guy like him not be attached?
“And yours?” he returns in his gravelly voice.
“Elena.”
His expression softens. “Nice name. It suits you.”
“Thank you.” I blush. “Would you like another drink?” Of course, he doesn’t.
He stiffens, drumming a beermat on the bar. “I was just about to leave.”
“I don’t blame you.” I smile to hide my disappointment.
A long moment passes as he stares at me with those arresting ice-blue eyes, his lips pressing together in a slight grimace. “Oh, fuck it,” he says, his voice gruff. “Give me a beer and chaser.”
“Coming right up!” I respond, suppressing the urge to whoop. “Bad day?”
“Something like that.”
I grasp the top of the pump and pull down. The beer flows out in spurts, vomiting from the nozzle. That’s not right. His eyes widen in dismay as I pump harder and more frantically.
He sucks in a breath.
“Uh…it’s not the best delivery.” I inspect the thick layer of foam on top of the beer and flinch. “I can start again if you like.” I resist the urge to tell him that this is not a reflection on how well my hands can do other activities.
His eyes crinkle slightly at the corners. “Don’t bother. I’m not sure the next one would be any better. No offence.”
“That’s true.” I let out a nervous laugh and hand over the beer that looks more like a cappuccino. “I’ve been on the island for three weeks with my friend Megan, and I’ve already gone through three jobs. I’m not cut out for hospitality. I worked in a bookshop back home.”
“A bookshop?” He smiles slightly. “I would never have guessed.” His gaze travels down my body, lingering on my breasts, then back up again. “Sorry. Your outfit is…distracting.”
I roll my eyes. “I think that’s the intention.”
“Maybe I need to visit more bookshops.”
Was that…an expression of interest? Speaking of books, he’s hard to read.
“I don’t want to work in a bookstore forever though. It was just to get me through university,” I explain, leaning in close to hear him.
His eyes flicker with a hint of interest. “What are you studying?”
“I’m just finished. Law with Criminology. Just waiting on results now and graduation.”
“Huh.” His forearm brushes mine as he lifts the whiskey chaser. It was only a slight touch but it made my breath trip. “I guess you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover. You’re a multilingual law student who works in a bookshop but masquerades as a provocative bartender at night.”
I’ve never heard a sexier way to describe myself. “Only in Greece, where I have the luxury of anonymity. It’s either this or kidnap tourists onto boats.”
“Ah yes, anonymity.” He takes a sip of the beer and fails to hide a grimace. “So why did you choose law for your degree?”
He actually looks interested in my answer.
“When I was younger, I witnessed a hit-and-run. I ended up going to court to testify and it was the most thrilling ten days of my life. After that, I always wanted to be a criminal lawyer and work on exciting court cases, but I guess that’s what everyone says.” I laugh, feeling like I’m a babbling idiot. “I’m not gonna deny the prestige and money sounds nice too. Stupid reasons.”
He scans my face as if trying to figure something out.
“It’s so hard to know what degree to pick,” I continue babbling. “I mean how can you tell what you want to do for the next few decades or whether you’ll be any good at it if you haven’t done it before? But I enjoyed the law degree for the most part. Right now, I’d do anything just to get a foot in the door at one of the top law firms.”
Still, he gives me a funny look. “What do you do, Tristan?” I ask, ignoring the angry drinkers desperate for attention.
“I own a few businesses and invest in property,” he says after a beat. “You can pour me another or you’ll get in trouble for talking to me too long.”
“Oh.” I have no idea what questions to ask a property investor. Ungracefully I lift the bottle down off the shelf. “What type of property?”
‘Hotels and apartment blocks mostly,’ he replies, a hint of weariness in his voice that makes me wonder if he’s worried about me being a gold-digger.
“Where do you live?” I probe.
His eyes drop to my chest and a muscle in his jaw jumps. When he meets my gaze, it’s less apologetic this time. My stomach tightens.
“London.”
His voice makes me want to have sex. It’s a good thing he’s not a newsreader. “Do people say you have a really nice voice? It’s so posh. Are you from London?”
“Thanks, I’ll take that as a compliment.” His eyes crinkle with the hint of a smile. “I’m from the Midlands originally but my parents are Irish so I had a mix of accents growing up. Apparently, I’ve lost any identifiable regional dialect. It’s not deliberate.”
I grin. “How very British.”
He reaches for the Scotch as I hand it to him, brushing his fingers against mine. “It’s got nothing on your beautiful Welsh lilt. It’s very endearing. My name sounds good when you say it.”
Fuck.
“I’m hoping to live in London soon,” I explain with a dry mouth. “It’s just so damn expensive. Megan and I are going to look for a house-share. That’s Megan over there.” I point to her for no reason.
He nods like a man who hasn’t understood what expensive means for years and hands me over twenty euros without asking how much the drinks cost. “What are you, twenty-three? You have your whole life to make money.”
“Twenty-four. Nearly twenty-five,” I add quickly. “I worked for a few years before starting uni. Why are you in Mykonos, Tristan?”
“I’ve been asking myself that since I arrived,” he replies darkly.
I frown but don’t probe anymore. The guy is a closed book.
Someone heckles me further down the bar. “I better serve the other customers.”
I move about the bar serving customers. Every now and then, I glance over at Tristan. Most of the time he is reading something on his phone, scowling. But sometimes, his gaze is fixed firmly on me. I never took myself for an exhibitionist, but there’s something highly sexual about Tristan watching me in little more than underwear. Like a private show I’m doing just for him. It’s distracting, which isn’t good when you’re as bad a bartender as I am.
Megan comes up behind me as I’m pouring shots of Sambuca. “Are you going to have sex with him?”
“Shush, Megan!” I hiss at her and look over to see if he heard. If he has, he pretends not to. “Of course not. Talk about going from A straight to Z.”
“Why, of course not? He’s hot. No-strings-attached sex. You need to loosen up. You’ve had one dick in three years and before that it was limp pickings.”
Barely even that, I think to myself. “I can’t have sex with some random guy just because he’s hot. Besides, think about logistics. I can hardly take him back to our cockroach-infested studio, can I?”
She purses her lips. “The beach then. Loads of people do it on the beach.”
I laugh loudly. “No, Megan.”
She grabs my shoulders and gives me a little shake. “Elly! This is what this summer is about. We have years to be reserved and boring. Take your chance.”
I open my mouth and close it.
“Come on,” I say in a lowered voice as I set the sambuca on the bar. “The guy must have women falling at his feet. Look at him. He’s just being polite because I helped him.”
She rolls her eyes dramatically. “Oh please, you don’t believe that for a second. Everyone is looking at him and he’s looking at you. If you don’t make a move, don’t complain to me for the rest of the trip. There’s a gorgeous man, by far the hottest bloke in this bar, no scrap that, the hottest bloke on the Greek islands who is expressing an interest in you and the best you can do is give him doe eyes?”
I bite my lip suppressing a smile. I should be used to Megan’s no-nonsense attitude to men by now. She’s right. Would it really be so bad to enjoy myself tonight? To just offer myself up to a gorgeous stranger for no-strings-attached sex? I’ve never actually had a one-night stand before. Not because I was averse to them, I just haven’t met anyone I wanted so badly that I needed to rip their clothes off within twenty-four hours.
My last relationship was a three-year thing with John, a guy I met at university. Sex with John was rigid and a bit tense. He seemed to have learned sex from a rulebook, then would mix it up between chapters. His signature move, where he spread my legs, dived his head in and performed something akin to a motorboat on my vagina, was more ticklish than sensual.
It took me a long time to realise we had floated into the friend zone and I’d stayed with him way longer than either of us deserved.
So, I wholeheartedly agreed with Megan that I had to make up for lost time. I just wasn’t sure if I had the guts. In my head, I’m a siren with a love life worthy of a porn channel. However, the reality is that I had a love life as limp as a dick in a freezer.
The bar gets busy, and I spend the next hour serving shots so I don’t have time to debate my intentions with Tristan. Every so often, I gravitate back to him. Shockingly he doesn’t leave. I even manage to pull a few more laughs from him. Whatever has happened to Tristan, it’s been a bad day.
At midnight, the crowd empties out to go to the local nightclub. Jonas puts me on floor-mopping duty as punishment for pouring more alcohol on the floor than in the glasses. I’m just about hanging on to the job.
My eyes flit from the floor to Tristan as I mop up the spillage. He puts his phone and wallet in his pocket ready to leave. Do something, fool! Talk to him. Give him your number.
Then he looks up, catches my gaze, and smiles.
I rush over like an eager beaver.
“I gotta go. It was nice to meet you, Elena.”
I telepathically beg him to ask me out. “You, too, Tristan. I’m sorry your day was so bad.”
“It brightened up at the end.”
Ask me out, ask me out, ask me out.
He opens his mouth, then closes it and raps his fingers on the bar where a napkin with cash is peeking out. “Don’t forget your tip.”
Before I can thank him, he turns and walks out of the bar. I look under the napkin. Five twenty-euro notes shine up at me.
And he didn’t touch a drop of the beer.
Damn, guy.
