Tropical Bartender Bear (Shifting Sands Resort 3)

“It doesn’t make any sense,” Tex said, knowing he sounded as whiny as he felt. “I mean I’ve always felt unlucky in love, but this is ridiculous. How can she not feel this?”

“Why do you always say that?” Travis asked. “That bit about being unlucky in love.”

Tex shrugged. “It just always seemed that way. I’d get my courage up to ask a girl out… right after she got asked out by the high school jock. Or that date where my truck broke down on my way to the restaurant and she ended up marrying the waiter.”

“Brutal,” Bastian agreed. “And now your own mate is pretending there’s no bond between you.”

Tex let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “I can’t stop thinking about her. I can’t get her face — or her body — out of my mind. I don’t sleep without dreaming about her.”

“Sounds like those songs you love to sing,” Travis teased kindly. “The sadder the better, right?”

Tex groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know what to do,” he confessed.

“Another round of margaritas!” one of the tables called.

The harried looking waitress scrambled through the back door with a tray of empty glasses. “I need a sidecar, a ginger snap, two blended margaritas and one on the rocks, no salt. Two pilsners, one Guinness, and a Budweiser.”

“Who the hell goes to a tropical luxury resort and orders a Budweiser?” Bastian asked, getting up from his stool to let Tex get back to work. “Come on, I’ll hold your ladder, Travis, and make sure no one tells you about anything broken before you can get a decent night’s sleep. Breck can kick the generator if the laundry room goes black again.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Travis said darkly. “He can handle the machines, but I don’t like him doing the electrical stuff. I’ve seen what that man can do to a fusebox!”

They left Tex to mix drinks and think dark thoughts about things sadder than any country song he’d ever sung.

Chapter 9

Sunrise yoga in the recreation center hadn’t even started when Laura joined the growing throng at the very top of the resort.

Laura yawned and wished she’d thought to swing by the restaurant for a latte before coming to the start of the marathon. Several smarter guests carried steaming to-go cups.

The view was arguably worth the early morning. To one side was the vista down over the terraced resort, with it’s charming cottages and grand architecture. The pool from here was a huge blue jewel, and the ocean beach beyond was a sliver of white caressed by turquoise water. The early morning sun set silver light in the jungle treetops, casting dappled shadows everywhere.

The other side was a sea of beefcake. The finalists were all wearing the barest of running shorts, and only one of them had opted for a tanktop, and it was one so tight and scant it was barely worth the effort.

There was more gleaming manflesh, stretching and warming up in provocative positions, than Laura would expect to find in a playgirl magazine.

She found her cheeks heating, just watching the spectacle, but she kept thinking about what the bartender, Tex, would look like. She hadn’

t gotten a glimpse of his ass, but she could imagine that it was much like Mr. Brazil’s, given their similar body build. Mr. Brazil obligingly bent over to stretch his hamstrings and gave her an amazing view of his spandex-clung ass, and the barely contained package beyond.

The girls next to Laura giggled and fanned themselves.

It suddenly occurred to Laura to wonder if Tex had a pair of assless chaps, to match his other over-the-top cowboy accessories, and then, of course, it occurred to her how much fun such a garment might be.

We could find out, Laura’s wolf suggested.

We could not, Laura replied sternly.

One of the celebrity hostesses, a little bottle-blonde woman named Jessica Linn, looking more than a little hungover, banged on her clipboard. “Are you rolling?” she asked the cameraman.

“When you’re ready,” he said.

“I’m ready to get this over with,” she snapped. “Why would they schedule this so early?”

“Gets too hot later,” Mr. Canada guessed over his sunglasses. He looked as dragged out as Jessica did.

Mr. Ireland, by contrast, was bouncing in place, obviously eager to go.

“Alright,” Jessica said. “Listen up, studs. We’re going to go over the rules before we turn on the cameras and I don’t want to have to say things more than twice.” She pointed down the road behind them. “You’ll be running down that road to the airport, and back up. It’s about two miles each direction, lots of winding, lots of hills, mostly under jungle cover. We’ve got cameramen in several key spots, and the video camera will be in a Jeep behind you for part of the way. There’s also a drone that will be following you. There is no shifting allowed, this is human legs only.”