She ignored that thought. From the body language of the woman seated next to him, it seemed that Marshall was more interested in her than she was in him. And then there was the fact that the woman continually looked through the windows to the property at the side of the hotel where, beyond the trees, the lane to James’s house ran.

What was that all about?

Not that Sophia cared.

She was marking time.

Until James got out of the hospital.

James was pretty beaten up, but he was tough, she thought, tucking a slice of lime onto the side of a martini glass, then placing it, along with a bottle of Bud, on a tray for the waitress to scoop up and take to table three, where a couple sat cuddled together on the same side of the booth.

As she reached for the bottle of Jack Daniel’s behind the bar, she wondered about James’s fight with Megan, but not too much. The important thing was that he was going to be okay and Megan was out of the picture.

Good.

That bitch had been making him crazy. What a nutcase!

Sophia dropped ice into a metal tumbler and poured the whiskey over it. She usually didn’t bartend, but she’d reluctantly taken this shift after receiving a panicked call from Donna, the night manager, when Sophia had been driving home from the hospital after sneaking in and seeing James. Donna had practically begged her to take over for Zena, one of the regular bartenders, who was ill again. Big surprise. Zena was about three months pregnant and milking it with her morning sickness, which weirdly happened to occur just about the time she should be arriving for her shift here at the hotel. Zena swore the mere smell of booze caused her to upchuck.

Really?

Sophia doubted it, but tonight, as Donna was desperate to find someone to fill in and Sophia desperately wanted to be seen as dependable, a “team player,” she’d accepted the job.

Again.

Besides, the whole place was owned by James, and the more she could curry favor . . .

She caught the woman on the stool observing her; their gazes clashed in the mirror’s reflection, and there was something more than just a casual look, something deeper. Even worrisome.

No doubt, she had recognized Sophia as the “other woman” in the Megan Travers disappearance mystery.

Fine.

Sophia had gotten used to the stares, even the questions.

“Aren’t you the one?” a particularly nosy busybody had asked when she’d worked in the café across the parking lot. The woman, with curly red hair, small glasses, and a disapproving smirk, had been in the gift shop, waiting to be seated and fingering a Christmas ornament on display, one of the faux fir trees that were part of the seasonal decorations.

“Pardon me?” Sophia had said, picking up menus as she was ready to seat a party of four.