Truth bomb: Never lie on your résumé.

Not that I lied about anything big, per se. I didn’t claim I knew Mandarin or that I’m skilled in computer coding, but I possibly hinted at the fact that I was a beer connoisseur. Okay, yes, I put it in damn italics on the résumé, so I might as well have put it in glaringly bold, pink font.

And with connoisseur, I use this in the loosest of terms. As in one time in college, I could definitely tell it was Bud Light in my cup instead of a cran vodka, and my digested dinner almost ended up on the dance floor.

And now, here I am, the manager-in-training at one of the up-and-coming brew pubs in Miami.

Yeah, the irony does not escape me. I once worked in a bottle room at a grocery store in high school and made good use of the inside of my shirt and my travel-size perfume when I came across moldy beer cans.

I clear my throat, and my gaze catches Reid’s as he stares me down from the doorway. Arctic chill, party of one.

I return my focus to my new boss. “Thank you again for this opportunity, Mr. Becks.”

“Please, call me Tom,” he says. “Go ahead with Reid and he’ll show you what you need to know. We’re honored to have a connoisseur in our presence.”

It’s official—I’m never lying on my résumé again.

“You won’t be disappointed,” I say.

Yet.

I shake Tom’s hand, and then I’m out the door, trailing Reid.

Reid Morgan. I internally repeat his name while I covertly check out his ass. God, even his name is sexy. My eyes trail up his form, and man, this guy is huge. As in freaking Redwood forest huge. I’m five foot four on a good day, and he must be fielding calls from NBA scouts. Possibly the Justice League, judging by the undeniable way his muscles bulge in his polo shirt.

My initial thought is holy hell. Where are guys like him on my dating apps? Because I sure as heck would be going out more often.

However, it becomes increasingly evident that I’m walking in this guy’s pissed-off wake. Anger practically radiates from him like some sort of magical force field.

He still hasn’t even acknowledged me, aside from a single Neanderthal-like grunt in my direction when I entered Tom’s office.

As Tom explained on the phone when he called to hire me, this job is mine as long as I pass my ninety-day evaluation. He wants to make sure I understand what’s required to manage this pub, so during my three-month trial period, I’ll be circulating through every job at On Tap. This includes dishwashing, basic food prep, bartending, and waitressing. The way I see it, if dealing with crazies in retail on Black Friday didn’t break me, someone whining about an overcooked burger won’t either.

Before I even clear the hallway that leads to the main restaurant, Mr. Hulk Incarnate has used his long-legged stride to his advantage and is already behind the bar, shining pint glasses.

I sidle up beside him and rest my elbows on the bar top. The lacquered wood is spotless aside from the two smudges my skin just left. The best thing to do is try to get to know him since I’ll be working with him on practically every shift for the next few weeks. And if he’s important to Tom, that means Reid’s approval will also be paramount in keeping my job. “So...I guess I should get started learning the ropes as a bartender since Tom wants me to shadow you today.”

He doesn’t even spare me a glance. He just keeps polishing as if his life depends on it. Man of few words.

“I mean, not literally your shadow, although I guess I could be, huh, big guy? Would you feel more comfortable if I used a step stool?”

Nope. Nada. Not even a hint of a smile.

Okay, not my best material, but I can’t stand awkward silences, and there aren’t customers at the bar to focus my attention. Only Reid and his suffocating silence.

“Can you hear me from down here? Yoohoo.” I wave my hand in front of his face, and he finally deigns to look in my direction.

For a bartender, he’s a whole other level of surly.

“Hey. Uh, I’m sorry. It was the tall joke, wasn’t it?” I wince. “I get it. I used to get called short stuff all the time when I was younger.”

He’s back to scrubbing and studiously ignoring me. What is with this guy? I get that I’m new, but technically, I’m his superior. But as they say in the service industry—when being shut out by a broody prick, you slap a smile on your face and silently put a curse on him that he’ll grow a unibrow. Or something like that.

“All right then.” I straighten and forgo the whole attempt at being personable. “So what am I going to learn today?”

He grunts and hands me a bleach-soaked rag.

Okay, this is getting a little ridiculous. Obviously, I can’t go back in Tom’s office because he’ll think I’m an incompetent crybaby who should get her job rescinded, but I’m getting stonewalled here and need to learn something today or else this will be a total wash. Anger bubbles up, and I press my hands against the counter. At the firm feel of the wooden bar top beneath my palms, I attempt to calm myself and chant internally.

I’m strong, confident, unshakeable. I can do this.

Who has obviously angered a man who can squish you with his pinky.

Mmm, nope. Not working.  

“I’m sorry. Let me repeat myself a little clearer.” I make sure to draw out the words, emphasizing each one. Because maybe this guy isn’t firing on all cylinders. Who am I to judge? “Will we start at the bar? Or will we go over the ser-ving rou-tine?”

Ever so slowly, he turns to me. His jaw clenches and unclenches, and he narrows his eyes to a near squint. “I might only be the bartender, but you don’t need to talk to me that way.” He practically bites out the words.

“I...uh.” Yeah, I got nothing. This is the most he’s spoken in a matter of thirty minutes. I square my shoulders. “Just making sure you can talk. All I’ve heard from you are grunts.”

“Literally”—he leans in closer, his voice low and steely—“my job includes talking to people.” I can’t look away from his intense stare. “All. Day. Long.”

And to think I thought he was cute at first. Those baby blues can’t cancel out the Eeyore of a personality, that’s for damn sure. Even if they’re paired with perfectly mussed light-brown hair. That’s lady boner kryptonite material…if he wasn’t an ass.

He wants to play it this way? Be rude to me for no apparent reason? Fine. Two can play this game. “You know, I wouldn’t have to talk to you that way if you’d actually, you know”—I hold up my hand, mimicking a mouth talking—“talk.” I tilt my chin up, giving a tight-lipped, saccharine smile.

“Talk to me like what, exactly?” he challenges.

Don’t say it.

Do. Not. Say. It.

He’s baiting you, girl. You’re stronger than this. You have a business degree and people to impress.

He has the audacity to smirk at me.

And I was a damn fish chomping at the bait on the hook.

I shrug. “An idiot.”

It’s clear the guy isn’t an idiot. Tom wouldn’t have Reid show me the ropes if that were the case. Goading him isn’t even in the top ten on the how to deal with a new co-worker list. Possibly not even in the top 1000. But I won’t stand for the good ole boys club mentality, especially when it involves my new job.

He huffs out a laugh. “You calling me stupid, princess?” he says through gritted teeth.

Dear. Lord.  My molars are about to be a pile of dust if this continues.

I should stop. This needs to end because I’m acting unprofessionally. In fact, I should just fire myself right on the spot. Yet by the way he’s staring down at me, as if I’m an ant he wants to squish, I just can’t.

I put my hand on my hip. “If the shoe fits.”

STAHP, Callie. Do not pass go. Do not collect two hundred dollars.

Stepping closer, he towers over me. I ignore the little voice in the back of my head that says, Guuuuurl, he’d crush you in bed.  

“Let’s get one thing clear. I don’t like you. I don’t have to like you. And you sure as hell don’t deserve to be here.”

Maybe he’s right—I don’t deserve to be here—but he has no way of knowing that.

I square my shoulders. If there’s one thing I don’t like, it’s being written off without a chance to prove myself. I’ve had enough of that from my parents; I don’t need it from some mouth breather, thank you very much. “You don’t even know me.”

“And I don’t want to,” he spits back.

It’s official. I hate Reid Morgan.