Crap! I’m late.

And crap, I forgot to ask that insanely hot bartender what his name was. I didn’t even give him my name! I’m such an idiot! He was gorgeous. Razor-sharp cheekbones, luxurious blonde hair that I’d just love to run my fingers through, striking blue eyes as deep as the sea--I could go on--but I’m late as hell.

When I reach the side door, I see it’s open, so I just rush right in.

“James,” I say out of breath. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry--”

We’re in a kitchen--not the kitchen, but a kitchen--and James is counting bottles of wine. He turns toward me.

“You are rather late,” he says, frowning.

“I’m really sorry,” I say. “I got lost in the garden, the flowers are distracting...you can relate, right?”

“How’s that?” he asks, his frowning deepening.

“Uhh…” I stammer. Crap, I’m digging this hole even deeper.

“Is it because I’m gay?” James asks, emphasizing the last word. “You think just because I’m gay that I like flowers?”

“I’m sorry, I--”

“It’s true,” he says. “I love the flowers.”

He grabs a bag off the counter and tosses it at me. “Your uniform. Get it on, and get to the party.”

“Yes, sir,” I say, saluting.

I look down at the uniform in my hand, then up at him. “Uh, where can I…”

He points to my left. “There’s a pantry over there. It’s empty.”

I step into the pantry, which is larger than my apartment, and rush to change into the uniform. It definitely is baggy. The shirt is at least a size too big for me, and the slacks in no way accentuate my feminine curves. I frown. The hot bartender guy is not going to be impressed by this outfit.

His image is burned into my mind. I want to see him again, even if I have to make a fool out of myself on the job and walk right over to him. I can’t risk that the night ends and he just disappears and I never see him again. I suppose I could ask James for his number, but that would be a breach of his privacy, and he’d think I was desperate. I have to make it look natural, like I just happen to bump into him. Again. Tonight.

I step out of the pantry, and James points to a tray of wine bottles. “Take these with you, and pop open a few of each kind. These bottles cost over $1,000 each, so be careful.”

One thousand dollars? For a fucking bottle of wine? I’ve been bartending for two years now, and I’ve never served something so stupidly expensive. I’m tempted to sneak a sip from one of the bottles, just to see if I can taste the difference between a $25 bottle and a $1,000 bottle. Could anything really taste $975 better? Doubtful.

I head down the hallway leading away from the kitchen. I notice other uniformed bartenders heading in the same direction, so I follow them. I’m keeping my eye out for my mystery man, but I’m not seeing any sign of him. He was really tall, so I should be able to pick him easily out of the crowd.

The hallway opens out to a huge room. Rich people don’t have regular rooms in their houses like middle-class or poor people do. They don’t just have a “living room” or a “dining room,” and it’s hard to know for sure what exactly this room would be called. Maybe the “entertaining room” or “the parlour”--spelled with a ‘u’ for extra pretentiousness--or something equally snooty.

This room is huge. It has high ceilings, and one wall consists of floor-to-ceiling doors, which open onto a terrace overlooking the lake and the garden. My guess is that I could see the bench I had been sitting on from the terrace, but I don’t have time to sightsee right now. There are a number of little bar stations set up all around the parlour, and I see three bartenders positioned behind each station.

James comes up behind me. “Amber, pick a station that isn’t already full.”

I turn to him, and I feel my face burning red. “I know this is a bit unprofessional, James, but--”

“Don’t ask then,” he snaps.

“There was this really hot bartender that I met earlier tonight,” I say. “Tall, blonde hair, blue eyes…”

“Just because I’m gay, you think I’ll have the same definition of ‘really hot’ as you do?”

“James, come on,” I say, looking at him with a serious expression. “I don’t want to miss out on seeing this guy again. This is important to me.”

He rolls his eyes. “Everyone who is working this evening is here already. Do you see him?”

I glance quickly around the room, taking a few extra moments to scope out each bar station.

“That one?” he asks me, pointing to a guy that looks like a super low-rent version of the man from the garden. He’s not nearly as tall, his shoulders are slumped, and his hair is thinning.

“You think that guy is hot?” I snort.

James sighs and rolls his eyes. “Yes, we have very different taste, just like I said. Now get to work!”

I certainly didn’t imagine this man. I spoke to him just a few minutes ago. I can still remember how he smells. So where the hell is he?

I walk up to a station with two other women.

“Hey,” I say. “I’m Amber.”

“Cecy,” one says. “And this is Maria.”

Maria is uncorking a bottle of wine.

“What should I do?” I ask.

“Start pouring out glasses,” Maria says. “The guests are about to be let in.”

“We’ve got to let the wine breathe,” Cecy says, laughing. “Expensive wine has to breathe, apparently.”

I laugh and grab a just-opened bottle of Pinot Noir. I begin pouring the wine carefully into the crystal glasses, conscious that a few drops are worth more than any entire bottle I’ve ever bought.

“Either of you two see a super-hot bartender?” I ask. “Tall, blonde hair, blue eyes--”

They point toward the same guy James did.

I sigh in frustration. Everyone has weird taste. “No, that’s not the one.”

“He’s the only blonde bartender,” Cecy says, popping open another bottle.

I swear to God the man I was talking to in the garden was real.

Suddenly James claps his hands.

“The guests are coming in!” he shouts. “It’s time to put on your nicest smiles!”