Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 102719 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 514(@200wpm)___ 411(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102719 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 514(@200wpm)___ 411(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
Don’t get me started on the oyster portion of the menu. Because yes, there is a whole side of the menu dedicated to my favorite bivalves. I part salivate, part stew in particularly sharp rage as I devour all the options. Oysters roasted with pimento cheese. With bleu cheese and bacon bits. Fried, served with a “secret” dipping sauce.
The raw oysters are served with not one, but two kinds of mignonette: strawberry and shallot. There’s a homemade cocktail sauce, heavy on my favorite sleeper ingredient, horseradish, that comes with the roasted shrimp cocktail.
My traitorous stomach grumbles. I haven’t been hungry in weeks, but I guess being at a restaurant that serves all my favorite things has predictably woken my appetite.
“Fuck. Him,” I hiss. Because it wasn’t enough for Riley to steal my heart, my virginity, and my pride.
Did he steal my dream too?
If he did, I don’t know how he made it happen. Maybe he sold the idea to someone, or used some of the pile of money he’s apparently made and opened it himself . . . whatever the case, his fingerprints are all over this. He’s the only person I ever shared this particular dream with.
“Pardon?” A bearded bartender stands in front of me, massive forearms rippling as he wipes the bowl of a wine glass clean with a white cloth.
My cheeks burn. So does the place where my heart used to be. “Um. Sorry. I was . . . yeah.” I quickly scan the cocktail list on the back of the menu. More anger when I see the different varieties of rum punch. One fruity, made with pineapple juice. One strong, made with sweet tea and lemon.
I go with the strong one, which the bartender shakes up with satisfying vigor in a brass cocktail shaker. The amber liquid is ice cold and frothy when he pours it in a crystal glass and hands it to me, but not before dropping in a pink paper umbrella.
Makes me remember the umbrellas Riley would put into our Solo cups. How fun that was, perfecting our rum punch recipe. We’d sip, add more liquor or juice or citrus slices, then sip some more before making out for what felt like hours.
Taking a long pull from my glass, I sigh at the perfectly balanced flavors. The sting of the rum, the soothing sweetness of the tea. All topped off with the delightful acidity of the freshly squeezed lemon.
To my mortification, my eyes prickle. This drink, this place—it’s heaven.
The kind of heaven I only allowed myself to imagine—to feel—when I was with Riley.
And now that heaven only exists in a short glass I’m struggling not to hurl at the wall.
Instead, I knock back the cocktail in two, three long gulps. The rum floods my already churning bloodstream, making my vision catch and release on the room with stomach-hollowing quickness.
Oh, boy. It’s not like me to drink like this.
I’m being an idiot. I’ll have the spins for hours now, which will keep me up way too late. Meaning I’ll be horrendously hungover for all the wedding-related errands I’m supposed to run with Goldie tomorrow.
It also makes the “frustration” low in my core flare to new heights. How long has it been since I had sex?
How long has it been since I had good sex?
I slam my empty glass down on the bar. I came to this bar to forget Riley, but he’s apparently everywhere on this godforsaken island.
“Easy there, tiger. If you hate your drink that much, just have Alex make you something else. We have an excellent return policy here at Stede’s, don’t we, Alex?”
Turning to look at the man I didn’t know was on my left, my heart stutters, then stops beating altogether.
Speak of the devil, Riley Dixon stands beside me. He towers over my barstool as he rests an elbow on the counter beside my glass. The smell of freshly showered man, tinged with sunscreen and citronella, invades my nostrils, making my nipples tighten.
What the hell is he doing here?
My gaze rips down the length of his body, anger and arousal surging through me in equal measure. Why does he have to fill out that tee-shirt so damn well? Riley was always in great shape, but now he’s . . .
Yeah. Ridiculous. The kind of ripped you only see on that beach in Top Gun: Maverick.
Not fair, universe.
How the fuck is it fair that he gets to look like a god and smile benevolently down at me like one too, while I’m here fighting for every breath? Every shred of self-worth?
Also. Did Riley just casually drop a big fucking hint that Stede’s is indeed his restaurant? We have an excellent return policy here.
“Sure do,” Alex replies. “You don’t like something, you don’t pay for it. What else can I make you? I recommend the Turtle Punch if you’re looking for a more refreshing option.”