Molly and Jake are godsends. Last week, Molly and I picked up paint and had ourselves a little painting party. Wine was involved. It was a good time. It’s been a week since I met them, and I feel like I’ve known them for years. I only broke down once at the end of the night. Molly, being the sweetheart she is, just hugged me tight and assured me everything was going to be okay.
Turns out she was right, but I wouldn’t be this functional without her and Jake. Within two days of meeting her, I had a freshly painted, fully furnished apartment. All my stuff was picked up from Pete’s, and to my surprise, he wasn’t there, just like I asked him not to be. He left me a dozen roses on the counter with a note saying he was sorry and hoped we could be friends. Funny thing, when we were together, he never sent me flowers. Not once.
I insisted that I start work on Saturday night. Molly told me to take some time, but I didn’t want more time to sit and think and feel sorry for myself. I knew I had to keep moving, keep pushing forward. That night, the three of us, Molly, Jake, and I, worked the bar. By the end of the night, they deemed me able to work on my own. Slinging drinks is slinging drinks, and I just so happen to be good at it. I worked my ass off to pay for college. Elaine used to tell me that working hard for what you want is an honor. You have to put the blood, sweat, and tears in to appreciate all that you have. Those are words I try to live by, even with my previous failed relationship.
When I got here tonight and found out that Anna had called in because her kid was sick, I pushed Jake and Molly out the door. They had both been here all day. I was sure I could handle it and promised that if things got crazy I’d call them and they could come rescue me. It’s just a short ten-minute drive to their place—well, and now mine.
Tonight, being a Monday, is slow as usual in my experience. Most people went back to work today after the weekend. It’s not usually until mid to late week when the evenings start picking up. It’s as if the entire world tries to be responsible the first half of the week, but true to nature, the stress of life, jobs, family, and whatever else plagues them brings them in for a drink. Most just a few to relax or shoot the shit with friends, others as their only means to unwind.
This evening there has been a few regulars, who I’ve already learned in my short time here. Those are the customers that come every day regardless of what’s going on in their lives. Some might have an addiction, others no one to go home to. Some just want a beer to relax before going home after a long day.
I’m wiping down the bar, trying to stay busy or at least appear to be, when the door opens, bringing in a chill from the cold November air. Looking up at my next customer of the night, my breath hitches. Holy shit, this guy… he’s tall—well over six feet—with dark hair, longer on the top and a mess as if he’s been running his fingers through it all day. He’s built, if the way his black dress shirt clings to him is any indication. He smirks when he sees me looking, so I avert my gaze and lift the bowl of peanuts that I’ve already wiped under what feels like a thousand times tonight. It’s not until he takes a seat at the bar, right in front of the bowl of peanuts that has my full attention, that I look up at him.
Damn.
Those eyes.
Brown as if the sunlight were shining off a glass of whiskey. They seem to sparkle as I stand before him, just staring at the brown orbs that seem to have me mesmerized.
“What can I get you?” I ask. My voice is clear and professional, regardless of how I’m lusting after him. In a word, he’s… pretty. I know it’s not the word you would use to describe a man, especially a man’s man, you know, the rough rugged type, not that I know that’s his type, but first appearances and all that.
“Whiskey.” His voice is deep and the rumbles race through me, sending shivers down my spine.
“That’s vague. You have a preference?” I ask, still maintaining indifference even though I feel anything but.
Those warm brown eyes, so much the color of the drink he’s just ordered, capture mine. “Baxter’s, any of them. Make it a double.”
All right then. Baxter’s it is. It’s a local distillery, and Molly tells me it’s a local favorite. I’m not new to Baxter’s; we served it at Tuff’s too. Although not as much as here at the Corner Pocket. Turning my back to him, I grab the bottle of Baxter’s that I’ve served the most in my short time here. Grabbing a tumbler, I pour him a double. Setting the bottle back on the shelf, I take a deep breath before turning to serve his drink. “Here you go. You want a tab?” I ask.
“Do I look like I need a tab, Short Stack?” he asks.
Asshole! “Not my place to judge, just to serve. It’s six dollars for the whiskey.” I turn and walk away to refill the beer of one of the locals, Bart. He’s been here every day that I’ve worked. He’s a nice older man. Molly told me he lost his wife a few years ago. He comes in and sips his beer for the companionship. “Another, Bart?” I ask.
“Sure thing, girlie, this is my last of the night,” he says.
I pour his beer and cash him out, ignoring the pull of this sexy stranger’s intoxicating eyes. I take my time wiping down the opposite end of the counter, trying like hell not to look down at the bar at Whiskey Eyes. And who does he think he is with that nickname? Short Stack? I’m short, at five four, but not terribly so. Of course, from the looks of him, he’s a good foot taller than I am.
“You keep whipping that counter, it’s going to crack,” he says, throwing back the rest of his whiskey.
“Crack?” I ask, confused. “Another?”
He shakes his head. “Yeah, crack. You’re going to rub it thin.” He smirks. “You’re good at that, rubbing,” he adds.
Great. He’s one of those. I’ve heard more sexual innuendos to last a lifetime. Disappointment washes over me. Figures, with his looks, he’s also a jerk. I know his type—entitled, never want for anything because it just falls at his feet. Sure, I’m a little jaded on the male species right now, but this guy is making it easy. I ignore his comment and keep wiping down the counter. It doesn’t need it, but the alternative is striking up a conversation with this guy, and well, I’d rather make myself look busy. He slides a ten-dollar bill across the bar.
“Thanks, Short Stack,” he says, bringing the glass to his lips and swallowing the last little drop.
I watch his lips—full kissable lips surrounded by a dark beard. My vocabulary is seriously lacking as the only word I can come up with is pretty. The corner of my mouth lifts as I try to keep from grinning. I wonder what Whiskey Eyes would think of me calling him pretty? A shot to his ego, I’m sure. The phone rings, pulling me from my thoughts. “Corner Pocket,” I say in greeting.
“Hey, Saylor, it’s Molly, just checking in on things.”
I smile. “I’ve got it under control. Poor Harold is bored to tears in the kitchen,” I tell her.
“Good. Well, not good being slow, but good you’re doing okay. Oh, you know what I mean.” She laughs.
“That I do,” I say with a chuckle. “Did you all go out to dinner like I told you to?” I ask her.
“We did. Nothing fancy, just pizza, but it was good. We’re actually on our way back. Want me to bring you the leftovers?”
“No, I’m good. I think I’ll have Harold grill me a burger or something. Don’t want him feeling like we don’t need him.”
“Good plan. All right, call if you need anything.”
“Will do.” I end the call and turn to take in the bar. Everyone is gone now except for the sexy asshole. I do my best to ignore him and busy myself putting glasses away.
“Jake around?” he asks once I’ve finished. I know he was watching me; I could feel his eyes.
“Nope,” I say, ignoring him as I walk from behind the bar and clean the two tables that were occupied tonight. When I get back to the bar, I see that Mr. Brooding is walking toward the door. Grabbing his glass, I see his cell phone sitting on the bar. “Hey, Whiskey!” I call out, not knowing his name. He stops abruptly and slowly turns to face me. The look on his face is one of resignation and maybe… bitter? I hold up his phone. “Forgetting something?”
He stalks back toward the bar. Reaching out, he grabs his phone, and my skin tingles where our fingers touch. He pauses, those whiskey-colored eyes boring into me. He doesn’t say another word before turning and walking away. I watch him as he goes—trust me, if you were me, you would too. He fills out those jeans like it’s his job. My body is tingling from his brief touch. Arms to the side, I shake them out, as if I can rid myself of the feeling of his hand on mine. Whoever that sexy stranger is, he’s not for me. I wouldn’t ever survive him.