Chapter Four

      AFTER KEEPING UP with a steady crowd all evening, Wyatt was ready to sit down with a cold one himself. In between mixing a Long Island Iced Tea and a gin and tonic, he looked over at table seven to see if the preppies were still there. If they were still called preppies. Brand-name clothes, tidy hair and smug laughter spelled prep school at the very least. The short guy wore a designer golf shirt and loud pants. Yep. Reunion attendees, all three of them, products of Roger Williams Preparatory Academy. He’d bet his lucky charm on it, or had he lost that to Bobby last night, too?

      Huh. Sounded familiar.

      Checking his pocket, he felt the Leatherman tool. Hell, maybe he’d be better off getting rid of it. His life had been anything but lucky in the last few years. Although the fact that he was still alive might be argued as a win, but not by him.

      Slamming the brakes on his dark thoughts, he set the finished drinks on Lila’s tray, and took a moment to rub his gritty eyes.

      She stopped flirting with the old guy at the end of the bar and swept up her order. “Thanks,” she said, giving him a sexy smile and a toss of her long blond hair. “After I deliver these, you want some help behind the bar?”

      He shook his head. “I’m good. Just worry about your tables.”

      “I only have three, so I can easily cover the beer tap, too.”

      “No thanks.”

      Her lips pursed in a pout, a very fetching pout. But no way he was going anywhere near that. Not just because she was an employee. Sexy, persistent Lila was built like a wet dream, but being in the vicinity of twenty-two, she made him feel a hundred years old. Hell, being with anyone that young would just exhaust him.

      On the other hand, looking wouldn’t kill him. He watched her curvy hips sway in rhythm with the jukebox music as she made her way around a rowdy group of surfers from Australia.

      “Hey, Covack, you up for another game later?”

      He turned just as Bobby pulled out a stool and dropped his car keys on the bar. “You’ve got a lot of nerve showing up here, Cappelli.”

      “What? You don’t honestly think I cheated.” Bobby chuckled. “Come on. Why would I waste the energy?”

      Ignoring him, Wyatt wiped down the bar. Arnie was sitting two stools down, crying in his beer over his lousy morning catch. A lot of the older fishermen frequented the bar when there weren’t too many tourists crowding the place.

      Arnie glanced up and pushed his empty mug forward.

      “You got a ride home tonight?” Wyatt asked him.

      The old man nodded. “Left the truck with Thelma.”

      Wyatt believed him and poured him a refill. Arnie was one of the more responsible drunks.

      “The trouble with you is, you think you’re good at poker,” Cappelli said. “But you stink, and I don’t mind taking your money while you try proving otherwise.”

      “Yeah, keep it up. Like I don’t already wanna throw your ass out.”

      Grinning, Bobby pulled out a wad of cash, half of which had been in Wyatt’s pocket last night. “Give me a Scotch,” he said, peeling off a twenty. “In fact make it Glenfiddich. I’m feeling flush tonight.”

      Wyatt flipped him off.

      Cappelli laughed and swiveled around to survey the room. “Dude, you need to do something with this place. It doesn’t just look like it belongs in a trailer park, it would have to be a condemned trailer park.”

      Yeah, most of the piñatas were old and faded. He’d been told on more than one occasion the dangling bikini tops were offensive. Maybe. But most of the locals thought they were funny and part of the landmark bar’s signature. “The place has character.”

      “Sure, if all you care about is the local crowd.” Cappelli appeared to have caught a back view of Lila leaning over a table and suddenly he had no more opinions to share.

      Good.

      The newest hire, Shelly, stood at the end of the bar waving an order ticket. Wyatt nodded as he poured the jerk’s Scotch. Not that he’d admit it, but Cappelli had a point. Wyatt had been thinking along those lines as he watched tourists and reunion people float in and out all afternoon. If he wanted to be a serious business owner, better yet, a more profitable one, he had to get his act together.

      He should’ve contacted the hotel, or whoever was in charge of the reunion activities, to get a copy of the weekend’s agenda. Figure out how he could attract the prep schoolers during the times they had no organized functions.

      If turning a healthy profit was just about him, he wouldn’t give a damn. But he had Becky and the kids to consider. They were the whole reason he’d moved here. To make sure they were safe and had everything they needed. Becky was certainly a smart, competent woman, but it was tough for her to work full-time with two little kids at home. The monthly widow’s benefit she received from the government was decent but could only go so far. Adam’s grandparents lived nearby and helped however they could, but they’d already gotten up in years when they’d raised Adam.

      Jesus, someone must’ve just gone through a shitty breakup. Wyatt looked up from the Sex on the Beach he was mixing to see which idiot was playing “Un-Break My Heart” for at least the hundredth time. His gaze didn’t make it to the jukebox. The brunette from this afternoon had just entered the bar, all dolled up in a short red dress that showed off long killer legs. He chuckled when he saw she was barefoot, a pair of five-inch red stilettos dangling from her hand. Man, he didn’t think he’d walk barefoot on this floor, even though it was washed every night after closing.

      Evidently she figured that out for herself. Her lips moved as she looked down at her feet and made a face. Grabbing the back of a chair, she quickly slipped on the heels, then glanced around.

      It was a sure bet she’d join the Ivy League trio.

      A bet he would’ve lost. The second she spotted them she turned her head, completely cool and collected, as she swept her gaze in the opposite direction while strategically arranging her long dark hair to hide the side of her face. She zeroed in on the empty barstools and headed toward them.

      Wyatt didn’t want her sitting anywhere near Bobby, or Mad Dog, who was downing shots to Bobby’s left. “Hey, Cappelli, move over three stools.”

      “What?” He glanced warily at the large, bearded biker. “Why?”

      “Just