“No setups,” I say. “My darling of darlings, we’ve had this conversation at least ten times.”
Lola smiles sheepishly again and I laugh, turning to walk out of the kitchen. But she’s there, hot on my heels.
“You can’t fault me for worrying about you a little,” she says. “You’re alone all the time and—”
I wave a flippant hand. “Alone is not the same as lonely.” Because as appealing as the idea of sex with an actual person is, the drama that inevitably comes along with it is not. I’ve got enough on my social plate trying to keep up with Lola and her tight-knit and ever-expanding group of friends and their significant others. I’m barely past the Learning Their Last Names stage. “Stop channeling Harlow.”
Lola frowns as I lean forward to kiss her cheek.
“You don’t have to worry about me,” I tell her, then check the time. “Gotta go, mid-tide in twenty.”
* * *
AFTER A LONG day on the water, I step behind the counter of Fred’s—the place nearly everyone lovingly calls “the Regal Beagle” due to the name of its owner, Fred Furley—and tie an apron around my waist.
The tip jar is just over half-full, which means it’s been pretty steady, but not so crazy that Fred will have to call in an extra hand. There’s a couple talking quietly at one end of the bar, half-empty wineglasses in front of them. They’re deep in conversation and barely look up when I step into view; they won’t need much. Four older women sit at the other end. Nice clothes, I notice, even nicer handbags. They’re laughing and possibly here to celebrate something, which means they’ll probably be entertaining and great tippers. I make a mental note to check on them in a few minutes.
Raucous laughter and the sound of cheering draw my attention toward the back, and I spot Fred delivering beers to a group of guys circled around the pool table. Satisfied he’s got them covered, I begin checking inventory.
I’ve only been at Fred’s about a month, but it’s a bar like any other and the routine has been easy enough to pick up. It has stained glass lights, warm wood, and round leather booths, and is a lot less seedy than the dance club where I worked my last two years of college. Still, it has its share of creeps, an inevitable drawback to this kind of job. It’s not that I’m particularly attractive, or even the best-looking woman in the place, but there’s something about seeing a female on this side of the counter that sometimes leads even the most well-intentioned men to forget their manners. With no barback here, I have to do a lot of the running and prep myself, but Fred is a great boss and fun to joke around with. He’s also better at spotting the creeps than I am.
Which is why he’s dealing with the guys in the back, and I am not.
I’m pretty particular when it comes to setup, and start my shift by arranging everything behind the bar exactly the way I like: ticket spike, knife, peeler, muddler, juice press, Y peeler, channel knife, julep strainer, bar spoons, mixing glass. Mise en place—everything in its place.
I’m about to start cutting fruit when a customer leans over the counter and asks for two White Russians, one with ice, one without. I nod, lifting two clean glasses from the rack, when Fred steps behind me.
“Let me know if those kids give you any trouble,” he says, and nods to the pool table group, which is currently whooping about something boy-related in the back.
They seem pretty typical for the UCSD guys who come in here: tall, fit, tan. A few are wearing graphic tees and others wear collared shirts. I study them in tiny flickers of attention as I mix the drinks, taking an educated guess from their height, physique, and tans that they’re water polo players.
One of them, with dark hair and a jaw you could probably have sex with, looks up just as I do, and our eyes snag. He’s good-looking—though to be fair, they’re all pretty good-looking—but there’s something about this guy that makes me do a double take and hold his gaze for the space of a breath, not quite ready to let it go. Unfortunately, he’s gorgeous in that unattainable, brooding douchebag sort of way.
With that reminder of the past, I immediately disengage.
I turn back to Fred and pull a second glass jar labeled CAR FUND from under the counter and place it in front of him. “I think we both know you don’t have to worry about me,” I say, and he smiles, shaking his head at the jar as he finishes his pours. “So is it just the two of us tonight?”
“Think so,” he says, and slides the beers onto the bar. “There aren’t any big games this weekend. Expect it’ll be steady, but slow. Maybe we’ll have a chance to get through some inventory.”