drink—a bottled Coors—on his twenty-first birthday. No more dark and slightly dingy walls, no more frayed fishing nets, plaster seagulls, tattered pirate flags and gritty seashells that had made up the incessantly seafaring decor.
Dark bronze ceiling fixtures with amber shades replaced the ship’s wheels and added moody lighting. Paintings, wall sculptures and a trio of his grandmother’s pencil sketches depicted local scenes.
Somewhere along the way someone had sanded and scraped off years of grime, spilled beer and very likely old puke stains so the wide-planked wood floor gleamed.
People sat at tables, in booths, on leather love seats or on the iron stools lining the long paneled bar. Others took to a postage-stamp dance floor, just a scattering of them yet, to boogie and shake to the five-piece band currently doing a very decent job covering the Black Keys’ “Lonely Boy.”
Instead of the campy pirate costumes, the staff wore black skirts or pants and white shirts.
It threw him off. And though the former Katydids had been on the crumbling edge of a shit hole, he kind of missed it.
Didn’t matter, he reminded himself. He’d get a beer like any normal guy might on a Friday night. Then he’d go home.
He started toward the bar when he spotted Abra.
She was serving a table of three men—young twenties by Eli’s gauge—balancing a tray with one hand while she set pilsner glasses on the table.
The skirt—short as advertised—showed a lot of long, toned legs that appeared to start somewhere around her armpits and ended in high black heels. The snug white shirt emphasized a lean torso and the impressive cut of biceps.
He couldn’t hear the conversation over the music. He didn’t need to, not to recognize the easy and overt flirting on all sides.
She gave one of the men a pat on the shoulder that had him grinning like a moron as she turned.
And her eyes met Eli’s.
She smiled, warm and friendly, as if that mouth with the accent of the ridiculously sexy mole hadn’t been plastered to his just a couple hours earlier.
She turned the tray under her arm and walked toward him through the moody light and music, hips swaying, sea goddess eyes glowing, mermaid hair tumbled and wild.
“Hi. Glad you could make it.”
He thought he could devour her in one, greedy gulp. “I’m just going to get a beer.”
“This is the place for it. We’ve got eighteen on tap. What’s your pleasure?”
“Ah . . .” Getting her naked didn’t seem like the appropriate response.
“You should try a local.” The quick laugh in her eyes made him wonder if she’d read his mind again. “Beached Whale gets high marks.”
“Sure, fine.”
“Go on over and sit with Mike and Maureen.” She gestured. “I’ll bring the Whale.”
“I was just going to go to the bar and—”
“Don’t be silly.” She took his arm, pulled him—weaving when necessary. “Look who I found.”
With an easy welcome, Maureen patted the empty chair beside her. “Hi, Eli. Have a seat. Sit back here with us old farts so we can actually have a conversation without screaming.”
“I’ll get your beer. And the nachos should be up,” Abra told Mike.
“Great nachos here,” Mike said as Abra scooted off, and Eli—with little choice—took a seat.
“They used to serve bags of stale potato chips and bowls of peanuts of dubious origin.”
Maureen grinned at Eli. “Those were the days. Mike and I try to get in here once a month anyway. A little adult time, and on weekends or in season it’s a great place to people-watch.”
“There’s a lot of them.”
“The band’s popular. That’s why we got here early enough to grab a table. Did you get your power back on and everything?”
“Yeah.”
Maureen gave his hand a reassuring pat. “I didn’t have much time to talk to Abra today, but she said somebody’d been digging down in the basement.”
“Yeah, what’s that about?” Mike leaned forward. “Unless you want it to all go away for a couple hours.”
“No, it’s okay.” In any case Bluff House was a key part of the community. Everyone would want to know. He gave them the basic rundown, then shrugged. “My best guess is treasure hunter.”
“Told you!” Maureen slapped her husband on the arm. “That’s what I said, and Mike’s all poo-poo. He has no fantasy gene.”
“I do when you put on that little red number with the cutouts on your—”
“Michael!” His name came out on a choked laugh.
“You walked into it, honey. Ah.” Mike rubbed his hands together. “Nachos. You’re in for a treat,” he told Eli.