“You’re in luck. Want ads come out every Thursday. That’s today.”
“Thanks,” Quinn deadpanned.
“As for a place to stay, my sister Patience owns and runs the Fourway ‘cross the street. There’s another damn wedding this weekend down at the resort. Can’t figure why people wanna get hitched with sand between their toes. Likely she’s already full up. Which is good, ‘cause Patti don’t want trouble neither.”
“You really redefine the notion of small-town friendly.”
“Small towns look out for their own,” Charity snapped. “That ain’t you.”
It never was. Which was how Quinn liked it. No ties. No connections. No demands. She’d tried once to belong; for a while she’d thought there’d be nothing better than belonging to Jasper for the rest of her life.
But every woman made at least one mistake.
Jasper again. As if Nikolai and his goons weren’t enough to keep her awake tonight. Go away, Jasper.
Quinn added the newspaper and few gossip mags to her stash. Charity bagged up her lunch, such as it was, and tossed the additions in on top.
“Where’s this resort?”
Charity’s beady eyes narrowed in again. Jesus, the woman gave “suspicious” new depths of creepy. “Why you wanna know?”
“Better tips at a resort.” Better chance of getting lost there too, if the remote-looking scenery and private bungalows were anything like their pictures. Not that she could afford a bungalow or that level of privacy, not without accessing her bank account and outing herself to anyone watching it. But she was curious and had a gut feeling about Casa Blanca since she heard the name. She was going with that until proved wrong.
Based on her history, she gave herself a fifty/fifty chance.
Charity continued to study her like a smear on a slab. Quinn waited her out, which was when she realized she’d been in the Super Mini Mart for a while now with no other customers arriving.
Guess they already knew to hold out for the 7-Eleven.
Oddly enough, Quinn like this bitch. They wouldn’t trade girlie secrets over shots, but there was something appealing about a woman who knew herself to be nosy and nasty with it and made no apologies for who she was. She’d rather have Charity’s kind of rude in her face than the slow knife of fake in her back.
“Head out down the road toward the water. You can’t miss it,” Charity finally directed. “Ask for Lacey Walker—she’s not opposed to trouble, else she’d never of married that husband of hers—but don’t drop my name if you want to get past her exalted threshold. We’re not gal pals.”
Quinn took the plastic bag. “You managed an entire sentence without insulting me once. I’m touched.”
Charity snorted. “Knew that when you walked in.”
Quinn glanced back over her shoulder, foot already out the door, the way she liked it. “Aaaaaand the moment’s over.” The bell tingled as Charity’s smoke-rasped chuckle followed Quinn back into the light.
* * *
Quinn drove onto Barefoot Bay and up to Casa Blanca convinced she’d entered a completely different realm. “Who lives like this?” she murmured as she parked in a visitor’s spot in between a Maclaren and a Maserati, and made her way into the Moroccan inspired resort. Around her, the flowing foliage, bright bursts of pink flowers, and whispering palm trees created a sense of isolation, as if there were no other world but Barefoot Bay and Casa Blanca.
Oh, if only.
She entered the three-storied main building and practically swam in ambiance. A startling Moroccan tapestry festooned the far wall. The registration desk continued the theme with an elegant African mosaic along its front and sides. Soothing music piped through the lobby encouraging guests to linger and perhaps dip into one of the elegant shops nearby. Quinn looked around with no small amount of appreciation and more than a twinge of disconnect.
Holy crap, I really don’t belong here.
Good thing she wasn’t looking to belong at Casa Blanca. She just wanted a job.
And maybe a place to hide for a little while.
She admired the lobby’s cool marble floor and noted both the upscale spa and similarly posh restaurant, each of which broke off from the lobby. Gotta be a bar in one of them. She made a beeline for the restaurant as the better bet. The moment she saw its well-stocked bar, Quinn relaxed for the first time in a week.
Ah, that was better. She might not belong, but she sure felt more at home in a place like this. Not the ritzy posh tables with what looked like proper gourmet food, but here, on a stool (or close enough to one), heels on the rungs and a drink before her.
Or one would be if she could get the bartender’s attention. But the guy was more interested in blowing smoke up the asses of the two women in tight dresses who were giggling into their cosmos than he was in doing his job.
When, ten minutes later, Quinn still didn’t have a drink, she muttered, “Screw this,” and slid off her stool to slip behind the bar.
She was halfway through pulling herself a pint of larger when a waitress walked up to the bar. She shot a pissed off look at the lazy Lothario, then sized Quinn up, made a clear judgment call, and set on a path right to her.
“I see Clancy finally hired a new bartender. ’Bout damn time. Feels like I’ve been nagging him about it for a hundred years.” She slapped a piece of paper on the bar in front of Quinn. “Fill these up?”
Quinn glanced at the order, hesitated a second, then went for it. “What the hell.” She set to searching out where they kept the required bottles and hoped it didn’t look like she didn’t already know. “Quinn,” she offered, setting a pair of cocktail tumblers on the bar.
“I’m Nettie.” She jerked a thumb down the bar. “That’s Jason. He works on dipping his wick in lonely one-percenters and not much else if Clancy and Chef Ian aren’t in eye shot.”
“There’s one in every bar.” Quinn set the mixed drink and two glasses on her tray. “Seven and seven and a pair of Pinots,” she confirmed.
The woman checked her pad, nodded, and then lifted the tray without spilling a drop. “Thanks,” she called back as she returned to her section. “And welcome to Junonia.”
Quinn wiped down the bar without replying, as Nettie’s quick stride had already taken her out of earshot, and Quinn guessed shouting was likely frowned upon in a place as swank as Junonia.
“You seem to know what you’re doing.” Quinn’s body locked in place as she felt the large body that went with the gravelly voice come right up behind her. Trapped. “Funny. I don’t remember hiring you to do it.”
Panic sparked, but Quinn shoved it back. Slowly she turned around and led with a flippant grin. “Surprise!”
He stared down at her, unamused. “Been a while since I had to toss someone outta my joint. Don’t get much riffraff at Junonia.”
First she was trouble, now she was riffraff. “You Mimosa Key people really know how to make a woman feel welcomed.” She angled her head toward Jason the bartender. “And you might wanna look closer to home for riffraff.”
He scowled over her shoulder. “Shit.” Bumping Quinn to the side, not ungently, Clancy (for he had to be the man Nettie mentioned) strode down the back of the bar. Quinn took the opportunity to admire his cowboy boots and the well-worn Levi’s that covered a world-class ass. He might have around fifteen years on her thirty-one, but by the look of him, those years loved him.
“Boy, did I not tell you not to hit on the women?” He didn’t wait to reach the bartender to start in on him. “You pour their drinks, and leave them to their business.” Jason flushed under the censure as the ladies in question took this as their cue to decamp to a table. Clancy flung a long finger in Quinn’s direction. “You didn’t even notice this one, and she was behind the bar serving drinks! Drinks you should’ve been seeing to! You’re lucky she wasn’t headed for the register or we’d be having this conversation out back, and it would be your face communicating with my fists!”
Jason muttered something
Quinn couldn’t hear, but it made the man get right up in his face. “I know you didn’t see her! That’s the point. Son, there is not a woman in this resort who does not have you sized up in a New York minute. You are not going to score in my joint, and you’re not going to work here neither. Third strike. You’re out.”
Jason sputtered a protest, but Clancy was done. He swung on his heel and stalked right back to Quinn and didn’t look inclined to stop when he got there. “Name,” he clipped off as she backed out of his way in the small space.
“Quinn McQueen,” she immediately answered and winced at hearing her married name come out of her mouth again.
He faced her across the bar and yanked out a chair. “Clancy Jaeger. Bar manager.”
She nodded and said, “Howdy,” and then had to press her lips together not to laugh. Clancy glared at her, so she guessed she failed. “Sorry. Bit thrown to find a surly cowboy in a chichi, Moroccan-themed resort.”
The heels of his cowboy boots hooked over the high chair’s lowest rung so that his knees jutted out to either side of the bar in a confident, but not cocky, man spread. Tall and lanky with a wealth of bushy hair and a mustache that longed to return to the seventies, Clancy should’ve been a duck firmly out of water. Sporting brown hair dusted with gray over matching brown eyes and creases in his face that proved he had smiled at some point in his life, he reminded her of Sam Elliot in his prime, and, like that actor, Clancy would likely stay prime regardless of his age.
“You got a CV?”
Quinn blanched. Shit. She forgot she’d need one of those. “Ah, no?”
He studied her like a bug under a scope, shifted his glare to coast over the restaurant at large, and checked his watch. “It’s 11:30. The lunch rush is about to kick in. You’ve got two hours to convince me not to kick your keister to the door. You up for it?”
“Been pouring beers and drawing pints since before I was legal. Yes, I’m up for it,” she added when he kept glaring.
Two more waitresses approached. Clancy gestured toward them, making it clear they were now Quinn’s problem, and settled on his chair. Quinn greeted the women and set to getting their drinks. His scrutiny caused her no bother; Quinn was used to people watching her.
“You got a bit of fancy to you,” he observed after an hour.
“Does that mean I’m staying?”
He didn’t answer her, probably because he’d exceeded his hourly quota of words. Instead, he turned back to the small laptop he’d brought out from behind the bar while she was mixing up a daiquiri.
Another waitress brought up her table’s order. Quinn set about filling it and then scanned the customers who’d peppered the bar as the lunch crowd swelled and tables required waiting times. She answered the summons of a raised hand and spent the next hour steadily engaged.
As always, the work settled her. Sorting orders. Uncorking wine. Pulling pints and mixing drinks. Exchanging a polite nod here, a welcoming smile there. Casual conversation that meant nothing but kept the booze flowing. The stretch for bottles and bend for glasses a ballet of movement felt familiar and refreshing after so much time cooped up in her SUV. It felt good to work again, touch base with what she knew best, and be pleased with the basic satisfaction of work well done.
“You got ID?”
Startled, Quinn bobbled a bottle. She caught it in time and finished pouring, but knew Clancy clocked that he’d thrown her.
The only ID she had as Quinn McQueen was the California driver’s license she’d gotten when she’d shacked up with Jasper. Using it would officially make her Quinn McQueen again.
God, if Jasp ever found out, he’d never let her live it down.
But she needed money, preferably cash, and for that she needed a job. This job.
“Yeah, I’ve got ID.”
“You clear the background check, I’ll ignore the lack of a CV.”
She met his steady gaze, which clearly communicated he knew he was taking a chance on her.
More of one than he could know.
“Ho-kay.” And then, quietly, after a minute, “thanks.”
He acknowledged the first and ignored the second to ask, “You need a place to stay?”
“I saw the Fourway Motel when I drove through town. But the lady at the convenience store told me there were no vacancies due to some wedding?”
“Charity would turn Christ himself away at the door if she didn’t like the look of him. Still, not likely she’s wrong, unfortunately. Weddings are big business at Casa Blanca. Whole island benefits, makes it hard to resent them when the cash flows down. Hibiscus Court probably has a short-term rental available. I’ll get you the number. You can call in between the lunch and dinner rush.”
Quinn’s fists clenched on the bar and her stomach rolled through its nervous Tilt-a-Wheel. A job and a short-term rental. That was how it began. Ties made, bonds forged. Paper trails and memories of a good night or a fun day.
Trapped.
Somewhere deep in a place she only looked at when she lay in the dark with the nightmares that never let her truly rest, Quinn knew she couldn’t keep wandering through life forever. But the last time she even considered putting down roots, she’d at least had Jasper to make it worthwhile, and look how that turned out.
She glanced around the cool class of Junonia and out through the door to the elegant hub of the resort. She could hide here from the Russian mob, here in this delicious, fantastical place. But even the bubble world of Casa Blanca would pop eventually and then?
Then she’d go back to the road and keep moving.
Somewhere even the Russian mob couldn’t find her.
Root free.
For the first time, that idea made the panic worse.
To beat it back, Quinn focused on the work, pouring the next drink, building the next pint, having a ready smile to deploy for friendly customers and Clancy’s watchful eyes. Using the familiar moves and ticks to block out the unbearable realization that life as she knew it was irrevocably over. That she had to leave behind everyone and everything she knew if she wanted to stay alive to live it. Become someone new.
Maybe it wouldn’t be that bad. People got lost every day.
This must be her turn.
“Clancy, mate, how’s tricks?”
Quinn glanced up from mixing a margarita to see a gorgeous Brit clamp a friendly hand on Clancy’s shoulder. A chef’s apron was tied around his waist over jeans and topped by a white t-shirt that clung to his muscled chest in all the right places. His slightly overlong, wavy hair and blue eyes that danced with cheeky humor added charming to his description, but it was the cavalcade of tattoos, particularly the seriously cool scorpion that spiraled up and around his neck, that capped the piratical impression.
“Smooth as a hooker’s belly,” Clancy rumbled back.
The chef snorted out a laugh as his attention shifted to Quinn. “You old dog. You finally hired a hot bartender?”
“She sorta just…appeared.”
“What, did you conjure her?”
Clancy aimed a pointed look at Quinn’s cleavage. “Pretty sure she’s flesh and bone. Quinn McQueen, meet Chef Ian Browning, head chef and cruel taskmaster of Junonia. I came back from the john and she was working the bar liked she’d laid in the wood.”
Good humor took a hike and suspicion oozed out from the pirate chef. Quinn aimed her patented Friendly Bartender Smile at him.
“Don’t worry, he’s keeping a close eye on me. Clancy’s half-convinced I’m gonna run off with the silver.”
“More than half,” Clancy muttered. “She makes a mean cocktail, even if she jiggles her ass a bit much when working the shaker.”
“Tips are hard enough to come by even here. Gotta shake it to make ’em.”
“You’re here to work, not dance on the bar,” Clancy grouched.
“Technically, it was behind the bar. Okay, okay,” she placated when he scowled. “I got it. No fun at work. Check.”
Ian pursed his lips at Quinn
, but the dancing light had returned to his eyes. “Don’t let him fool you, darling. Clancy’s the guard dog at our gate, but deep down, he’s a pussycat. And if you’re lucky enough to gain his loyalty, you’ll never regret it.”
Her Friendly Bartender Smile took a hit at that. She’d worked enough bars that were barely more than dank pits and avoided enough trouble of the male variety over the years to know that loyalty was not a commodity most bar managers and bouncers traded in. But she’d already noticed Clancy was polite to customers without fawning over them. Treated the hostess ladies and waitresses with a rough respect. Ran a bit stern on the busboys, but didn’t abuse them. He fit there. Quinn was quickly learning Florida took all kinds of people. Why should Casa Blanca be any different?
“You have a beautiful restaurant,” she said to Ian.
“Pleased you like it. Stay long enough, I’ll introduce you to my wife, Tessa. She supplies Junonia with all the fresh produce we use in our signature dishes from the organic farmette she runs here on the island.”
Quinn thought about how many ways her convenience store lunch violated any idea of organic. “Sounds like a gem.”
“I’ll bring her by, next time she’s in. Though I’ll warn you, she’ll probably have the kids with her.”
“Kids are good.”
Clancy glared at Ian. “You gonna let Quinn get back to working my bar? Or don’t you want the job?” he asked Quinn.
“I want it. Sorry.” Shit. She wasn’t supposed to be socializing or, God forbid, making friends. She was here to keep a low profile. Like, snake belly low.
“It’s my bar, Clancy,” Ian reminded him.
Clancy looked like he was setting up to argue that point when they were interrupted by a tall blonde in a tizzy. She clutched her phone in a fist and grabbed Clancy’s arm with her free hand. “You have got to help me.”
“Willow, what’s wrong?”
“Good, Ian, you’re here too. I have a crisis. Well, the Barefoot Brides have a crisis.” She stopped, pulled in a deep breath, and dropped her forehead into her hand. “We are so screwed.”
“Willow, it can be all that bad,” Ian soothed.
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