Pulling himself out of his bleak thoughts, Tristan grabbed a cloth to clean a spotless bar counter. Moira ran a tight ship and was borderline OCD with cleanliness.

“Two Caipirinhas, table five,” Ana handed Tristan a slip of paper that he stuck to the counter, getting the ingredients for the drink.

He mashed wedges of lime, added mountains of sugar, and poured generous amounts of cachaça, the Brazilian distilled liquor made from fermented sugarcane juice.

Ana watched him work as she engaged in conversation. “Hey, too bad Moira’s kid is sick, but I’m glad you’re covering for her. I never get to see you, boss.”

Tristan ignored the wink the cheeky waitress threw his way. Most people thought Ana was a flirt, but he didn’t fall for that. He thought her act was intentional to distract people from the fact she never talked about herself. Even if she did mean to flirt with him, Tristan didn’t mix business with pleasure.

Not anymore.

He had learned that lesson the hardest way.

That didn’t mean he was a bore.

Winking back, he quipped, “More like you avoid the night shifts like the plague, Missy.”

“Boyfriend’s too jealous,” Ana replied, flipping her long red hair over her shoulder, and laughing out loud.

She didn’t have a steady boyfriend.

“How’s college treating you?” he asked in a serious tone.

Tristan admired her commitment and drive to study and create better opportunities in life. But, the night classes she was going to for her teaching credentials kept Ana away from Chez Nous Bistro.

“Getting there, boss.”

“Good for you. High schools need more awesome teachers like you.”

“It’s elementary, but that’s okay.” Her long, tanned fingers thrummed the counter as she waited for the drinks. Then she smoothed the front of her white button-down shirt and tucked it into her black mini-skirt. The elegant restaurant logo was embroidered in golden thread in the black apron she wore over the skirt. “I guess old Mrs. Oliveira couldn’t take Dani to the doctor, huh? It sucks. Depending on others,” Ana clarified at his quizzical look.

Moira paid a neighbor to babysit the kids and the generous elderly woman would even take them to doctor appointments whenever she could.

Not that day, though. He knew the hardships of single parenthood first hand. His mom had the hardest time raising him by herself, so he didn’t hesitate to cover for Moira.

“Tell me about it. The poor woman had a conflict of schedule today, or something. She couldn’t reschedule it, so Moira needed to take Dani to the doctor.”

“And you just waltzed in to save the day.”

He shrugged. “Not a big deal. Glad to help.” He put the two glasses filled with the greenish mix of lime juice and cachaça, and lots of ice cubes on Ana’s tray. “There you go.”

“Thanks, boss.” With a million-dollar smile, and another playful wink, Ana swirled and flounced toward table five.

Tristan smiled as he noticed the sea of heads turning to follow Ana’s graceful movements as she went. He wished Noah would grow some balls and ask the woman out before another smartass did so. He loved Noah like a younger brother, but the man could be dense. He was missing out on a woman like Ana.

He gave himself a mental slap on the forehead and quit pretending he was a matchmaker. With his sad track record, he should be the last person giving anyone advice on love and relationships. He’d better return his focus to the task at hand.

Being something of a night owl, made the late shift in the restaurant perfect for Tristan. His partners gladly let him take charge of closing time. Although that day was an exception, he was glad to cover for Moira since bartending would keep his mind busy. It was something he loved doing, but rarely had a chance to. Focusing on preparing the drinks kept the problems at bay. Maybe the ghosts from his past wouldn’t haunt him. He could only hope that’s be the case. God only knew he could use some quality sleep.

The ringtone he had set for his partner’s calls blasted, a U2 classic, so Tristan tucked his cell phone on the crook of his neck, holding it in place with his shoulder, while he mixed drinks for another order. He smiled into the mouthpiece. “What’s up, loser?”

“That’s how you greet your business partner and lifelong friend?” Noah Cartwright’s amused retort was buried under loud guitar riffs.

Tristan knitted his eyebrows. “Where the hell are you?”

“Home, rehearsing. Where the hell are you? I’ve banged on your door so hard it stung my hand.”

Tristan smacked his forehead. “Shit! Totally forgot, dude.”

He had promised Noah he’d rehearse for a while before heading out to the restaurant. Another reason he should not have taken that damn nap.

“I kind of figured that one out, man,” Noah chortled. “Clicking and swashing sounds, muffled voices. Bet you’re at the bistro. A bit early, isn’t it?

“Covering for Moira, remember? I’m sorry I forgot about rehearsal.”

“One day, I’ll drag you to the dark side, kicking and screaming if I have to,” Noah promised.

Trying to convince Tristan to start a rock band was Noah’s thing. He would return to the topic as often as he could. Lately, more so. Apparently, he had been hanging out with a couple of talented musicians. Tristan had sworn off that life many years ago and Noah had a front row seat to the whole depressing spectacle. He should have known better than to insist.

Who am I kidding? It’s Noah I’m talking about here. He’s worse than a dog with a bone.

Tristan had to say something, though. He chose the obvious. “Been there, done that, didn’t do much for me.”

“What the hell are you babbling about, Big T? You made a shitload of money with your lyrics and I’m not talking only Izzie Anderson.” That name still stung Tristan’s chest as if his friend had pressed the tip of a hot iron to his flesh. Noah must have heard Tristan’s sharp intake of breath, because he kept talking. “Anyway, that’s all in the past. She moved on. You moved away to another country.”

“Not that simple.” Tristan forced a tight-lipped remark out of his constricted throat.

“Hey, it’s me you’re talking to, dude. I was there. I know how bad it was. I’m just saying you shouldn’t dwell. It’s been fifteen fucking years.”

“I haven’t been living like a monk,” he said the words out loud as if they could convince his brain that empty nightstands and short-term relationships count for anything.

Noah behaved the same way, so he didn’t contradict Tristan. “Nothing wrong with serial dating, man, but I wasn’t talking about your sex life. I meant getting back in the music biz.”

Tristan rolled his eyes. Noah was persistent, if anything else. “Give up, Baby Face. Not interested.”

Tristan couldn’t suppress a lopsided smile at his friend’s fake loud sigh. Noah insisted, “You can’t stifle your natural talent forever. The band needs you. I need you.”

Tristan chuckled, “What band? It’s just a handful of guys goofing around for the sake of it. Get over yourself. I’ve got work to do here. You know, at our restaurant, while you play rock star.” Noah’s laughter was contagious, so Tristan joined him. “Talk later, bro.”

Ignoring Noah’s protests, Tristan hung up and returned the cell to his back pocket. Whatever good effects bartending brought earlier, Noah’s call put a serious dent on them. Tristan didn’t sulk in past grief. He didn’t dwell in past wounds. It had taken him a painful, long time to get over the damage caused by one Izzie Anderson. He preferred to keep her away from his mind. Those stupid recent tabloid headlines weren’t helping him achieve that. They had brought back the insomnia, instead.

Shaking his head, he shoved the lurking memories to the darkest corner of his mind, together with Noah’s tempting suggestions. Tristan didn’t want fame and fortune. Not anymore. He had had his days under the bright lights and they had ended in pitiful misery. He was better off away from the spotlight.

It changes people. It destroys them, if they let it.

Still, memories kept resurfacing as he refilled the bowls on the counter with peanuts. He glanced out of the panoramic windows overlooking the narrow strip of sand, the sight of warm waves of the Atlantic Ocean washing the beach made his heart less heavy. That view still worked its magic, after all those years.

Fifteen years ago, when he hit rock bottom and was eager to get away from Los Angeles, Tristan thought a trip to a foreign country would make for a good change in scenery. Thanks to Noah, who had moved to Brazil to go to graduate school and try to rekindle his relationship with a Brazilian ex-girlfriend, Tristan decided to take a break in a quiet tropical setting. It was supposed to be only that, a quick break. He fell in love with the place and the people, though. When Noah suggested they opened a restaurant together, Tristan jumped at the chance, investing most of his savings.

The rest of his savings, he invested in the stock market. That didn’t turn out so great, when the market crashed, and he was still struggling to recover from it.

As for staying and opening Chez Nous Bistro, he had no regrets whatsoever. Best decision ever.

Hidden away in the southernmost tip of Florianópolis island in Santa Catarina, Tristan found a small stretch of white sand framed by tropical forest. Matadeiro Beach, accessed only by water, or a narrow trail through the wilderness from the neighboring Armação Beach, was worth the effort. His wounded soul found healing in contact with the generous locals, mostly fishermen and their families, and the breathtaking views of emerald sea, blue sky, and white sand.

The fact that few people knew Izzie Anderson in his new neighborhood played a decisive role in Tristan’s decision to stay. However, he rarely revisited that fact, preferring to simply enjoy living in a place where people knew him as the tall American restauranteur, not the loser who once had loved and trusted a certain pop star.

* * *

Halfway through the extra shift, Tristan had forgotten all about self-doubt, debt, and nightmares. He was having a blast when Ricardo, the night shift’s bartender, arrived. The tall man had an imposing figure with his wide shoulders and powerful arms, but smiling countenance, framed by sun bleached hair that curled softly over his forehead and ears, gave off a good vibe. Surfer vibe. Well, Ricardo was a local surf champion, so the impression was accurate.

“Did I miss the tweet where you fired me, boss?”

“Nah. Just having fun and messing up your stuff. Maybe having fun because I’m messing up your stuff?” Tristan finished washing the glasses and folded the dishcloth neatly on the counter behind him, after wiping his hands on it. “Bar is all yours. I’ll be in the office, if anyone needs me.”

Weaving his way through the tables in the main room, Tristan had to stop at every other one to greet the early birds that gradually filled the restaurant.

“Lovely place you have here. Congratulations,” praised an elderly man Tristan had never seen before at Chez Nous. Judging by his accent, Tristan figured he was from Louisiana.

“Thank you, sir. Is everything okay over here?” Tristan glanced at the elegant lady sitting across from the man as he inquired so that she felt included.

“Just perfect, son,” she drawled.

“Escaping from the cold winter back home?”

The silver-haired gentleman stroked the lady’s hand, and she squeezed his in return. The glance they exchanged spoke volumes before the man had a chance to speak. He dragged his ocean blue eyes from the lovely woman’s face to Tristan’s, then explained, “Celebrating fifty glorious years. Never a dull moment.”

“Impressive.” Tristan fought the nagging sting in his chest and kept smiling. “I don’t know many couples who’ve been married that long.”

“Oh, no, son. We met fifty years ago, been married thirty,” the woman corrected.

The man chuckled. “I wasted about ten years. But, I’ve been making up for it ever since. Right, dear?”

“Yes, hon,” she agreed, her dark green eyes reflecting the light of the small floating candles in the centerpiece.

“Congratulations again. Enjoy your meal.”

Another couple of feet toward the office, and he heard a familiar voice to his left. It was Mario, a regular client, calling out in his thick Brazilian accent, “Tristan, my man. Good to see you.” The bespectacled, middle-aged man raised a glass of red wine in greeting.

Tristan nodded in response, still fighting to keep a smile on his face. The interaction with the tourist couple annoyed him, yet he wasn’t willing to analyze the reasons why. He couldn’t believe he was jealous of their obvious happiness.

That’d be petty.

That’d be lame.

If he had wanted committed relationships, he could have had them. He had chosen not to tread that path. No room for second guesses.

Stopping beside the hostess, he peeked over her shoulder to check the reservations for that night. “Looking good, huh?”

“Booked solid until the end of the month. Good job with that TV commercial. Most of the ladies calling in to make a reservation asked, and I quote, if the ‘drop-dead-gorgeous guy’ from TV was really the owner and if the six-pack was real or photoshopped.”

Karen Razzini moonlighted at Chez Nous’s greeting podium at night, but her day job was as the restaurant’s bookkeeper. Nelson Razzini, her brother, was Tristan and Noah’s Brazilian partner and longtime friend. Although the restaurant working environment was informal, as it was typical of the Brazilian culture, Karen’s status as friend warranted her getting away with that kind of comment.

Still, Tristan’s cheeks burned, and Karen taunted, “Aww, how cute is that? You’re blushing. Get out of here and let me do my job.” Karen nodded towards the door as it creaked open before adding in a low voice so that only he could hear, “You’re too much of a distraction.”

His delighted chuckle died out, and the twinkle in his eyes vanished, when he lifted his stare to welcome the newcomers.

“You!” He didn’t try to disguise the accusatory tone as he growled, “What the fuck are you doing here?”

Of all the trendy restaurants, in all the south of Brazil, Izzie Anderson walks into mine.

It’s been almost fifteen years, but her betrayal cut through Tristan just as much as it did the day she told him she was pregnant.

And that the baby wasn’t his.