13. Abbie
13
ABBIE
T he ice clinks against glass as I mix another old fashioned. I resist the urge to check my pocket for the third time, and I force myself to finish garnishing the drink. Head in the game, Abbie.
"Here you go." I slide the cocktail across the bar, pocketing the tip with a smile.
My fingers itch as I fumble with my apron. Corey's probably wondering why I haven't responded to his last message. God, Thursday night was mortifying enough without me acting like some lovesick teenager now.
"Can I get a Manhattan?" A suited man waves from the end of the bar.
"Coming right up."
There goes my phone again. I feel my cheeks heating up as I measure out the whiskey. What must he think of me after that drunken phone call? Sure, he said all the right things, made me feel beautiful and wanted, but that's probably just what successful older men like him do. They know exactly what to say.
I garnish the Manhattan with practiced precision, though my hands shake slightly. When I finally cave and check my phone, there are a few messages from him:
Looking forward to seeing you again.
You're probably busy. Text when you can.
I tap out a quick "Sure, no problem" before shoving the phone back in my pocket.
The bar's starting to fill up, and I throw myself into mixing drinks, grateful for the distraction. But every time the door opens, my heart jumps. I keep picturing Corey walking in, remembering how his voice got all deep and gravelly that night on the phone, how he…
No. Focus on work. Stop being pathetic. He probably does this with lots of girls - finds some young thing to boost his ego, makes her feel special for five minutes. You're just the flavor of the week.
I grab more ice, purposely keeping my back to the door. The less I think about him showing up, the better.
"Hey girl." Lacey sidles up next to me, her glossy red lips curved into a knowing smile. "Got some news."
"What's up?" I wipe my hands on my apron, grateful for the distraction from my Corey-induced spiral.
"VIP suite wants you specifically." She bumps my hip with hers. "Someone's a little obsessed with you."
The bottle of vodka nearly slips from my grip. "Me? Are you sure?"
"Trust me, this is major. VIP customers drop hundreds just on drinks. Tips are insane." She leans in closer, voice dropping. "Plus, you never know what kind of... connections you might make up there."
I instantly feel nauseous.
Lacey smiles reassuringly. "I know that look. Girl, you're a natural. Besides..." She glances around before continuing. "Word is there's some seriously loaded guys up there tonight. Like, own-half-the-city loaded."
“No. No way. I can barely make a decent cocktail, let alone serve VIP customers!" My hands flutter uselessly at my sides. "This has to be some mistake."
"No mistake. They specifically asked for - and I quote - 'the new girl with the curly brown hair.'" Lacey grabs a service bin from under the counter. "Here, help me load this up. We need premium spirits, the best garnishes..."
"But what if I mess up their drinks?" The thought of disappointing some wealthy clientele makes my stomach churn. "Can't you come with me?"
"They asked for you, sweetie. And trust me, these guys aren't your typical rich assholes. The one who asked for you? Total hunk in an expensive suit." Lacey starts loading bottles into the bin. "Grab those crystal glasses, would you? The fancy ones we save for special occasions."
Hands shaking, I reach for the delicate glassware. "How rich are we talking?"
"Well, they rented out the entire VIP section for the night. That's a five-figure minimum." Lacey adds some artisanal bitters to the bin. "And from the looks of their watches alone? Let's just say they probably spend more on accessories than we make in a year."
"Oh god." I clutch a glass tightly in my hand. "What if they're like, mobsters or something?"
"Nah, too smooth. More like old money." Lacey plucks the glass from my death grip and sets it carefully in the bin. "These guys requested you for a reason."
"Yeah, because they must have wanted a comedy show on the side." My hands tremble as I arrange garnishes on a silver tray.
"Stop it, right now. You're gorgeous, you're smart, and you mix drinks better than half the veteran staff already." Lacey adjusts my apron strings, smooths down my hair. "Besides, rich guys love it when pretty girls act a little nervous. Makes them feel powerful or something."
"That's not helping."
"Here." She presses a cloth napkin into my palm. "For your hands. They're sweating."
"Thanks." I wipe my palms, trying to steady my breathing. "What if-"
"No what ifs. Just be yourself. That's clearly working already." Lacey winks, loading the last of the glasses into the service bin. "Now come on, your adoring sugar daddies are waiting."
She guides me toward the back stairwell, her hands on my shoulders. The narrow passage leads up to the VIP section - all dark wood and velvet curtains from what I've glimpsed through the door.
"Remember," Lacey whispers as we reach the bottom step. "Chin up, shoulders back. You belong here just as much as they do."
"I really don't think-"
"Less thinking, more walking." She gives me a gentle push. "Go show them what you've got."
I start up the stairs, crystal glasses clinking softly with each step. My heart is pounding, but Lacey's words echo in my head. Chin up. Shoulders back. You belong here.
I set the heavy bin down in the prep area, my arms trembling from carrying it up the stairs. The crystal glasses clink as I arrange them on the silver serving tray, along with a small notepad for taking orders.
Deep breaths. Just pretend they're regular customers. No big deal.
My reflection in the polished steel counter catches my eye - flushed cheeks, wild curls escaping from my carefully styled updo. I tuck the wildest strands behind my ear, straighten my apron, square my shoulders.
Come on. You can do this. You can do this.
The swinging door feels heavier than usual as I force myself to walk through it. The VIP lounge spreads before me in all its glory - rich mahogany panels, plush velvet booths, dim lighting from crystal chandeliers that probably cost more than my yearly rent.
My heart stops.
Corey sits at the curved booth in the corner, looking even more devastating than I remember in a dark suit that hugs his broad shoulders. His silver-streaked hair catches the light as he leans forward, saying something to his companion.
And holy hell, what a companion. The other man matches Corey in both presence and polish - tall, built, with classic good looks straight out of a CEO magazine spread. His navy suit probably costs more than my car.
They haven't noticed me yet. I grip the tray tighter, frozen in place as I watch them share some private joke. Corey's laugh echoes across the room, deep and rich, sending a shiver down my spine.
What is he doing here? Why didn't he tell me he'd be coming tonight?
The tray trembles in my hands as reality hits - he specifically requested me. This isn't some random encounter. He planned this.
My legs turn to jelly. I should run. I should absolutely turn around and tell Lacey I can't do this. But before I can move, Corey looks up and our eyes meet across the room.