Blame it on the Bikini. Natalie Anderson

first. It looks like poison to me. Too many ingredients.’

      ‘I don’t drink on the job.’ She smiled sweetly. ‘Are you too scared?’

      ‘Don’t think you can goad me into doing what you want,’ he said softly. But he picked up the glass and took a small sip. He inhaled deeply after swallowing the liquid fire. ‘That’s surprisingly good.’

      ‘Yes,’ Mya said smugly. ‘Just like Lauren.’

      He grinned his appreciation. ‘All right, clever clogs, what cocktail would you put together for me?’

      Oh, that was easy. She picked up a bottle and put it on the bar.

      He stared at it, aghast. ‘You’re calling me a boring old malt?’

      ‘It needs nothing else. Overpowering enough on its own.’

      ‘Well, you’re wrong. There’s another like that that’s more me than a single malt.’

      ‘What’s that?’

      ‘Tequila. Lethal, best with a little salt and a twist of something tart like one of your lemons.’

      She rolled her eyes.

      ‘And what are you?’ He laughed. ‘Brandy? Vodka? Maudlin gin?’

      ‘None. I don’t have time.’

      ‘You should make time. You shouldn’t work so hard.’

      ‘Needs must.’ She shrugged it off lightly. ‘And you have to leave now so I can close up the bar.’

      ‘Have lunch with me tomorrow. We can brainstorm ideas.’

      She should have said yes to organising the party on her own. Why had she thought he ought to have active involvement? ‘I’m at class tomorrow. I’m doing summer school.’ She’d be in summer school for the next three years.

      ‘Okay, breakfast, then.’

      She shook her head. ‘I’m working.’

      ‘This place is open all night?’ His brows lifted.

      ‘I work in a café in the mornings and some other shifts that fit around my classes and the bar work.’

      ‘And you work here every night?’

      ‘Not on Sundays.’

      ‘Where do you work on a Sunday—the café?’

      She nodded, looking up in time to see his quick frown. She rolled her eyes. Yes, she worked hard; that was what people did when they had to. Eating was essential after all.

      ‘Why didn’t you take a summer internship?’

      She turned and put all the bottles back in their places on the shelves. The summer internships at prestigious law firms in the city were sought after. Often they led to permanent job offers once degrees were completed. But she wasn’t going there again, not until her final year of study and she’d recovered her grade average. Not to mention her dignity. ‘I need to keep going with my studies and, believe it or not, I earn more in the bar.’

      ‘You get good tips?’

      ‘Really good.’ She rinsed her hands again and wiped down the bench.

      ‘You might get more if you let some more of that red lace stuff show.’ He glanced down the bar. ‘One thing we are going to do for the party is have better bartender outfits. You’d never guess what you wear beneath the undertaker’s uniform you’ve got going on in here.’

      Heat scorched her cheeks again. Once again, why had she picked that wretched scarlet bikini? He was never going to let her forget it. ‘This is what we all wear in the bar. It’s simple, efficient and looks smart.’

      ‘It’s deadly dull and doesn’t make the most of your assets. Not like that red underneath it.’

      ‘It’s not underneath it.’

      ‘You took it off?’ He looked appalled. ‘Why on earth did you take it off?’

      ‘It was a bikini,’ she said, goaded. She closed her eyes and breathed deep to stop herself laughing. His wicked smile suggested he knew she was close to it anyway. She looked at him. Not at all sorry he had to shell out however many tens of thousands to hire the most popular bar in town outright for a night during the busiest time of the year.

      ‘Why do men get so fixated on lacy underwear?’ she asked aloud. ‘Don’t you know sexy underwear is no indicator of how far a woman is prepared to go?’

      ‘You’re saying you’ll go further than what your boring day-bra might indicate?’ he said mildly.

      ‘No!’ she snapped.

      ‘So you do wear boring day-bras?’

      Oh, the guy was incorrigible. But, heaven help her, she couldn’t help but laugh. So she’d see him some saucy talk, and raise him some flirt. She nodded with a secret smile. ‘No lace.’