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Turned out the crowd wasn’t as bad as Greer made it sound—they were clearly just getting warmed up, everyone on decent behavior for now, conversation still a little stilted and awkward in places between them as they loosened up, and the people you could obviously tell had issues with someone else in the group were being polite about it for the time being. They skimped out on tips, but they behaved okay, kept me working at a brisk pace for the better part of the evening without sweeping me off my feet, and it left me a little exhilarated by the time it was settling down and I had another half hour left in my shift when a man slid into a more covered, shaded corner of the bar with a sly smile on his face that said he liked what he was seeing.

Frankly, he wasn’t too bad, either. I’d seen him earlier in the day too, hanging out at the bar with a few others, and we hadn’t talked, but he had that bad-boy stubble and troublemaker’s gleam in his eyes, and I couldn’t lie—it was kind of my weakness. Guess I was simple, because I was all too happy to walk up to him and lean against the bar, kicking one foot up over the other.

“What can I get you?” I said, and he smiled slyly.

“Depends. What’re you offering?”

“Mojito’s a pretty popular one tonight.”

“Mojito’s a bit of an odd name, but it’s a cute one. Suits you.”

“Ha.” I folded my arms on the bar, leaning towards him. “Just for that, now you don’t get to know my actual name. Guess I’m Mojito for tonight. And that makes you?”

He smiled wider. “Jack,” he said. “Jack Daniel’s, if you want to use my full government name.”

“Mojito and Jack Daniel’s. There’s a risky combo.”

“I’m a risk-taker.”

Maybe he was. Maybe I was into a risk-taker. “Well, Mister Daniel’s, do you want a drink, or just to push your luck and see where it can get you?”

He chuckled. “Let’s do a mojito, then. In your honor.”

“Aren’t I flattered? One mojito for Mister Daniel’s, coming right up.”

We went back and forth flirting a little bit—didn’t really say much about himself, but I wasn’t looking for a connection. Clearly, neither was he. Guess it was a red flag when a guy wouldn’t even tell you his name, but it felt a little different when I was the one who started it. Made small talk—asked him how long he was staying, where he was coming in from, and he asked me how long I’d been working here, what it was like working a resort bar. Standard issue questions. He navigated them like a pro, though, just enough sly comments and clever looks worked in to keep me hooked, and not to big myself up, but I think he was pretty solidly pulled in as well. Man looked at me like the building behind him could have collapsed and he wouldn’t notice.

So once my shift finished and I clocked out, and when I found Mister Jack Daniel’s leaning against the bar with that bad-boy smile trained on me like we were the only two in the resort, I didn’t need much convincing.

“Done so soon, Mojito?” he said as I pushed out of the door and onto his side of the bar, and I shrugged.

“Bar’s getting a bit stale. Could use a change of scenery. Anywhere good you have in mind?”

He smiled wider. “Aren’t you the resort staff? Pretty sure you’re the one who’s supposed to have the recommendations in mind.”

I glanced down at my fingernails. “Don’t know if you’ve tipped well enough for that. Might have to ask front desk.”

“And share you? Not feeling it. Let’s go somewhere you can get a drink too.”

I laughed. “Maybe a shot of Jack’s. In your honor. Fine then. Let’s get out of the resort and hit up Casablanca. Club pretty popular with visitors just up the way a little.”

He didn’t lay up on the charm, either—we slipped out of the resort grounds together and headed up to where Casablanca was quiet right now, Monday evening just a bit after opening not exactly its peak hours, and the bartenders here knew me well enough to give me space when I walked in with someone. The flirtation got more overt as the evening went on, sly comments turning into dirty jokes, and I was only two drinks in by the time his hand rested casually on my ass and our lips met, as risqué as we could get away with in a club before it was even ten o’clock.

Figured I was in for a good night. Spirits sailed high and crashed hard when we got back to the resort, barely keeping our hands off each other on the trip back, and I sobered up instantly at the sight of the number 36 on his suite door as he fished his keycard from his wallet, swiping it at the door.

Allison’s little friend—what was her name? Ryan Bell. Staying in suite 36, with her boyfriend.

Son of a bitch. Guy was always going to give me a fake name. To be fair… I couldn’t give myself too much credit, because I waited until he opened the door, part of me wondering if I was getting invited to a threesome that I would not have said no to.

No such luck. Empty room besides Jack Daniel’s—two sets of bags, squashed in together so it looked like it was all one pile of his stuff. Men’s care products scattered over the bathroom sink to make it look like it was just him. Guy had done this before.

“Doing okay?” he said, pausing in the room, looking back at where I lingered in the doorway. The drinks were suddenly miles away, my head perfectly clear as I worked out what to say here—wasn’t my first time finding out someone was trying to cheat with me, but I hated when it did. Never knew the safest way to handle it.

“Not… strictly,” I said. “Think I’m feeling a little sick.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Drink not settling right? Come in and sit down and I’ll bring you a glass of water, something—”

“Probably more urgent. Just threw up in my mouth a little.”