24. Twenty-four
“You aren’t allowed to touch anything unless I say,” I tell him, pulling my hair up into a messy bun and rolling the sleeves of my flannel shirt up. “You’re a disaster.”
I assess the bar. Tickets are still hanging from the printer and at least five empty glasses sit in front of customers.
“What the hell have you been doing back here?” I grab a couple of empty bottles set on a random ledge and drop them into the trash. “It looks like you let a bunch of frat boys run rampant.”
I pluck the line of tickets out of the printer and skim through them.
“Look.” He grinds his teeth and rubs the back of his head. “Obviously, I know this isn’t going well, or I wouldn’t accept your help. So, please. Just. Help!”
He emphasizes the last words with an irritated bark in his voice, which I ignore.
“Take this.” I hand him a highlighter. “I want you to go through and mark off the ones you can handle, which, based on what I’ve seen, is only beer or wine. Maybe.” I shoot him a doubtful look. “Leave the cocktail tickets here.” I point to a ledge. “I’ll catch the bar up while you do that. I’m not bothering to learn the computer system; you can eat the cost of these drinks until we get caught up.”
He snatches the highlighter from my hand with a curt, “Fine.”
“Miss, do you know how to make a cocktail that doesn’t taste like piss?” a man with an amused look asks across the bar, loudly enough for Ethan to hear.
Ethan shoots him a glare.
I grin.
“As a matter of fact, I do.”
“Then we’ll take a couple of Manhattans, and the ladies here would like some margaritas on the rocks.”
“You got it,” I say, feeling a sweet buzz of adrenaline crackle through me.
The bar is a mess, but I make myself at home, switching bottles out on the well rack and making a mental note of the garnishes. My rubber boots squeak as I move across the thick mats that cover the floor. As far as I am from home, it feels just as familiar.
I grab the shaker, making a show of spinning it in my palm then throwing it from one hand to the other before grabbing the tequila and pouring it in.
I laugh and take a playful bow as I get small applause, then make quick work of halving and juicing limes before adding the rest of the ingredients. I shake, strain, garnish, and serve the margaritas like I have hundreds of times before.
Only this time, it’s different. Like I’m a musician making my comeback tour, it’s my hour of reinvention. I’m not the sad, stuck bartender on Key Largo that everyone knows. I’m just… me.
“Margaritas.”
I hold them up proudly and place them on the napkins in front of the two women, then move quickly to make the Manhattans.
The man who ordered sips his and hums out a moan.
“That’s damn good, miss. A helluva lot better than whatever Ethan made me.”
He mockingly lifts his glass toward Ethan and laughs.
“Funny, Mike,” Ethan says flatly over his shoulder as he highlights tickets and puts bottles of beer on trays.
“You have a name?” the man asks me.
“Thank you very much.” I beam. “And my name is Nel.”
“Well, Nel.” He pauses, taking another sip.
I freeze, waiting for the fallout from hearing those two familiar words stitched together, shocked when it never comes.
He smacks his lips with an ah! “You make a mean drink.” He holds up his glass in approval before turning back to the group he’s with.
I continue to work like it’s the most thrilling thing in life while Ethan stays quiet aside from random mutterings I ignore. I’m having too much fun—feeling far too alive—to deal with his devolved personality.
When four men sit at the bar, I drop napkins in front of them.
“What can I get you boys tonight?” I ask.
They’re around my age, maybe a little younger, each handsome enough. They eye me curiously.
“Four Coors,” one of them says before looking past me to Ethan. “What are you doing back there, man? I thought last time was the last time.”
He reaches a hand toward him over the bar with an amused smile.
I grab their beer and pop the tops off before sitting them down in front of them, curious as to how Ethan will respond.
“Don’t remind me,” he grumbles, grabbing the man’s hand across the bar and giving it a quick shake.
I start making a martini from a new order on a ticket as Ethan leans a hip against the bar.
“Who’s the woman?” one asks, nodding toward me.
“Someone saving my ass,” Ethan says.
“Where’d you find her?”
He scoffs. “Sitting on a stool, pissed off at me.”
I bite back the smile and look away as I shake the cocktail over my shoulder.
Eventually, we find a rhythm. He’s not exactly friendly, but he’s not completely unfriendly either. We get the bar caught up, and every order that comes through the printer for the guests at tables is immediately taken care of and given off to a server.
I don’t dare look at him too long, or at all, out of fear of him realizing who I am.
We’re so busy I don’t have time to think about how I”ll explain it when the time comes. Maybe I won’t. Maybe this will just be how we meet, and he’ll never know. I’ll work his bar, then I’ll go to the coast of Maine and never talk to him again. Knowing my dad, this idea will pass, and I’ll never send him another email.
“Nel! Can we get another round of those margaritas, please?”
I pop up quickly from the cooler I’m organizing at the same time Ethan walks by. My head collides with the tray he’s holding and sends a bottle of beer flying through the air before it lands with a foamy crash.
He runs his hand through the thick hair on the top of his head.
“Can you pay attention?” he snaps.
With this, I realize—he’s not unfriendly, Ethan Mills is an asshole.
My eyes widen before narrowing sharply.
“Look, for whatever reason, I’m doing you a favor.” I flick a finger against his chest, which annoys me to notice is very broad. “Maybe try to not be so… pissed off. You’d be a lot better back here if you took out that stick you’ve shoved up your ass!”
I cross my arms as I hear the boys sitting across the bar, poorly attempting to stifle their laughs.
“Ethan, is it?” I ask like I don’t already know way more than I should about him.
“Yeah,” he mumbles, looking away and scrubbing a hand over his scruff-covered jaw.
“Ok, Ethan. Maybe try to be less of a dick when someone is helping you.”
I grab a few pieces of glass off the ground before washing my hands and grabbing the tequila. The boys at the bar break out into full-blown laughter as I flip the bottle in the air before pouring it into the shaker.
“And gentlemen?” I say, eyeing the four guys. “Your friend Ethan here didn’t tell you I’m not ringing any drinks up tonight, so I’d order top-shelf if I were you.”
Then I give them a wink before moving down the bar, only stopping to smile sweetly at Ethan as his lethal look pivots from me to them when they start to howl.
Thank you very much.
***
“Part of your problem is this isn’t very organized,” I say, scrunching my nose at the chaos.
The crowd has thinned out just enough for a teaching moment that he desperately needs.
I point to an area of randomly open bottles and mixers. “Do you have some kind of system here or…?” My voice trails off as we look around. It looks like the bar was teleported from a warzone.
“Maybe?” he says, scratching his neck. “This clearly isn’t my area of expertise. Usually I’m in the kitchen.”
For the first time, I notice his eyes. They’re a color that can’t decide if it wants to be blue or green, and they sit on his face like two small pools of the ocean. It’s a color so intense I have to look away.
“Well, you can learn how to make a drink, but I’ll tell you that knowing where everything is can help you a ton when you get in a situation like this. For the sake of all these poor people, I hope you never have to get back here again, but at least learning the layout can help.” I pause, considering the situation. “And I typically take an order and work the easiest drinks first, then the more complicated ones. If you do that, you won’t drown… as fast.”
His eyes meet mine, and there’s the faintest flicker of something. Admiration?
“Hi, Ethan,” a woman’s voice cuts in. With long dark hair, big blue eyes, and lips she’s licking like a fox in a henhouse, she slides coolly onto a stool.
Turning away from me, he leans against the bar to face her.
“Hey, you.” His voice comes out as smooth as velvet.
“Ethan.” She giggles. “It’s Megan, silly. I got a haircut since the last time we went out.” She flicks her hair around.
“I know. I like it,” he says with that smirk, wiping the bar in front of her.
“You haven’t returned my calls. I thought we had a connection.” She taps her fingernail on his forearm that rests on the bar, and I’m instantly annoyed.
Irrationallyannoyed.
His eyes meet mine, and I snort a laugh as I drop an empty bottle into the trash.
“Haven’t I? I’ve been busy.” He scratches the back of his head. “Can I get you a drink?” he asks.
She pouts. “No, I’m with friends. I just wanted to say hi. I didn’t know you were so busy. I’m free after this...” her voice trails off, but her eyes linger long enough to relay everything she’s thinking, earning a smile from him before she walks away.
An obvious fact reveals itself at that moment. Ethan has been flirting with me in his emails, but it’s because Ethan flirts with all women.
I can’t tell if all the blood leaves or rushes toward my head as I look at him. I’m mortified.
I know I can’t run away, so instead I hand him a ticket and hear myself say, “For such an ass, you certainly have a lot of women fawning over you.”
I don’t wait for him to respond before I greet the next people who take their seats at the bar.