“Someone’s having a bad day,” Fred says, putting the finishing touches on a tray of margaritas. “Weren’t you the one who told me the worst day on the water still beats the best day anywhere else?”
Ugh. I did tell him that. Why do people always remind you of your best parts when you’re having a bad day? “Just sore and cranky,” I say, trying to smile. “I’ll get over it.”
“Well, you’re in the right place. Loud drunk people are always the right thing for a bad mood.”
This pulls my reluctant grin free, and Fred reaches forward, gently chucking my chin.
A row of tickets sit on the counter and I reach for one. Two martinis, dirty, extra olives. I place two glasses on a tray, fill a shaker with ice, pour in vermouth and four ounces of gin, a little olive juice. I fall into the rhythm of the work: measuring, shaking, pouring, serving . . . and the familiar movements relax me, they do.
But I still feel restless with the breathlessness, the few terrifying seconds I thought I might not be able to fight my way up from the tide. It’s happened to me a handful of times, and even though logically I know I’ll be okay, it’s hard to shake the lingering sense of drowning.
Luke moves in my peripheral vision, and I glance up as he walks around the back of the booth, typing on his phone. So he’s one of those, I think, imagining how many girls he’s texting right now. There’s a brunette at their table who seems pretty interested in what he’s doing, and I’m tempted to walk over to her under the guise of serving drinks and tell her to cut her losses: invest in one of the kind nerds in the far booth instead.
I shake and pour the cloudy liquid into the glasses, rereading the ticket again before adding two skewers packed with olives. The waitress smiles and leaves with the order, and I move to the next, reaching for a bottle of amaretto when I hear a barstool scrape across the floor behind me.
“So how’s the car fund?”
I recognize his voice immediately. “Nothing today,” I tell him without looking up, finishing the drink. “But I’m not really in a smiling mood, so I’m not holding out much hope.”
“Want to talk about that?” he asks.
I turn to look at him: this time wearing a dark blue T-shirt, same perfect hair, and still entirely too good-looking not to be trouble. Unable to resist, I give him a tiny smile. “I think that’s supposed to be my line.”
Luke acknowledges this with a cute flick of one eyebrow skyward before glancing back at his group.
“Besides, it looks like you’ve got some people waiting for you,” I say, noting the way the brunette’s eyes track his every move. He reaches into his pocket, checks his phone, and looks back at me.
“They’re not going anywhere,” he says, and his eyes smile a split second before his lips make that soft, crooked curve. “Figured I’d come up here and get myself a drink.”
“What can I get you?” I ask. “Another beer?”
“Sure,” he says. “And your name. Unless you want me to keep calling you Dimples for the rest of our lives.”
Luke’s eyes widen playfully as he whispers a deliberate “Oops” at this, and produces a dollar bill from his pocket, slipping it into the jar. “I came prepared tonight,” he says, watching me pour an IPA into a pint glass. “Just in case you were working again.”
I try not to linger on the thought that he specifically brought a pocketful of singles with him for me and this little game.
“It’s Lon—” I start to say, just as the bar door opens and Mia walks in with Ansel behind her. Luke’s head turns toward them just as I finish with a mumbled “—don.”
After a beat, he looks back up at me, eyes oddly tight. He nods quickly. “Nice to officially meet you.”
I’m pretty sure he didn’t get my name, but if he’s fine not knowing it, I’m fine not repeating it.
Another customer sits at the bar and waves to get my attention. I slide Luke’s beer over to him and smile as he looks up, the coaster touching the edge of his hand. “That’s five dollars.”
Blinking at me slowly, he says, “Thanks,” and pulls out his wallet.
I move to help the new customer, but out of the corner of my eye, I see Luke slap a bill down on the bar and return to his friends without waiting for change. Either he didn’t leave a tip, or he left a big one.
Unfortunately for my determination to find him douchey, I’m pretty sure I can guess which.