2. Walt
WALT
Ihate that goddamn bell.
My pulse races like a car at the Milwaukee Mile every time it rings. Maybe I should take it down? Smash it with a hammer? Run it over with my truck?
I shake my head. No. It’s for security. It’s practical.
If I’m in the back, I need to know if someone comes in.
It doesn’t matter that every time I hear it, I question if I made the right decision.
Then again, my life has never felt right in any way, shape, or form—might as well keep that streak going.
I fumble around looking for the Bartender’s Guide book that has seemingly gone missing.
Leave it to me to open a bar with zero experience and lose the damn recipes.
What kind of idiot does that? Sure, I spent every summer as a kid running around the one my grandpa owned, but being a willing observer doesn’t exactly qualify me to be a business owner, much less pour anyone a drink.
Not to mention, the bartender I hired is a no-show today.
Maybe I only offer beer today?
Maybe I should close up and try again tomorrow?
Shit…what am I doing here?
A lone woman takes a seat at the bar. Too late now.
“What can I get ya, miss?” I say, setting a napkin down in front of her.
“Vodka tonic,” she chokes out.
“Coming right up.” My shoulders relax as I turn to make her a drink. Thank god; that’s one I know how to make.
Grabbing a glass and scooping the ice, I set it on the bar top, pouring the liquor and topping it off with the soda gun.
“You want to start a tab?” I ask, sliding the drink toward her.
“Yeah, I’ll be here a while,” she says. “Put it under Bethany ‘found out my husband’s cheating on me today’ Miller.” My heart plummets. I can’t fathom what that must feel like.
Being alone means there’s no risk of that happening to me. There’s also no risk of anything else happening either. Anything good or bad or exciting or scary or exhilarating. But still…no risks. That’s how I live. It’s how I have to live. There’s no other option.
Well, unless I count the risk of opening this damn bar. But money is a risk I can take.
It’s everything else I can’t afford to lose.
“Stay as long as you like. First one’s on the house.”
She nods and tips her glass my way as I head down the bar to start a ledger for the day. Picking up my pencil, I jump out of my skin as that damn bell rings again. My stomach churns knowing I got away with one drink, but now a new game of chance is upon me.
I look up to see a man step through the threshold and walk directly toward me.
His worn brown leather jacket, a stark contrast to the slicked back blond hair with one strand falling across his forehead almost as if it’s pointing to the deep dimple in his cheek.
The jukebox flips to ‘Careless Whisper’, the smooth notes of a saxophone echoing through the bar as the gentleman takes a seat at the barstool right in front of me.
My eyes fix on his—they’re piercing blue like the water on the lake mid-summer, taking my breath away.
I notice the way his rough hands remove his jacket and place it on the back of his chair, revealing a set of coveralls with a crisp white t-shirt underneath.
He clears his throat as he turns to face me. Shit; I’m staring. My knees damn near give out as I realize I’ve been fixated on this stranger in my bar.
Goddammit, Walt. No. Risks.
But fuck if he doesn’t look like a living, breathing risk.
I push my shoulders back as I place a napkin before him. “What can I get you?”
He blinks his long lashes at me a few times. “Cheapest, coldest thing you’ve got on draft.”
The southern drawl of his voice rolls through me smoother than a shot of whiskey after a long day, goosebumps pebbling every inch of my skin.
“You got it.” I shake out my hand, my heart racing as the lager inches toward the rim of the glass. I feel a bead of sweat ready to drop from my face, saying a silent prayer it doesn’t fall in this drink as I take in a deep breath through my nose, my jaw clenched tight.
Calm the hell down. It’s just a man buying a drink.
I jolt at the chill of liquid dripping down my hand.
“Shit.”
The beer spills over the top, and I race to stop the flow before it can do any more damage.
I hear a snicker as I scramble to find a bar towel to wipe off both the glass and my hand. I set the beer in front of him, harder than I should, and some foam sloshes over the side. And this goddamn stranger has the audacity to chuckle again.
“Something funny?” I snap.
He pulls his chin back, eyes wide, his lips pursed together. “Nope.”
“You think you can do this better?”
He raises his hands in surrender.
“That’s what I thought.” I stomp toward the wall of bottles behind me, catching my reflection in the mirror as I lean over the back of the bar. I drop my head into my hands as a chill of guilt washes over me—same as the damn beer did.
Shit. My second customer of the day and I’ve already screwed this up. My tongue traces my bottom lip, about to offer an apology, when Bethany’s voice pops up.
“Can I get another?”
I flash her a nod and walk back to the well to refill her glass. The well is right in front of the man who has me flustered in a way that…that…goddammit, why am I so flustered?
“You just opened, right?” he surprisingly asks. At least he didn’t storm out after I snapped at him. My face pales, anxiety slithering down my spine. Oh god…what if he’s one of those mystery reviewers or something? Maybe I should apologize.
“Just this week,” I throw over my shoulder as I walk the drink down to Bethany.
She takes a sip. “These are good…keep ’em coming this strong.”
“Yes ma’am.” I snicker. At least someone is happy with their service.
My gaze bounces around the bar. This day is not going according to plan and, of course, there’s that damn bell again. A three-top walks in and sits at a table across the room.
I stifle a groan. What the hell did I get myself into?
“Be right with you folks!” I acknowledge the group, grab a few napkins, and head their way.
After taking their orders, I start making their drinks.
Two wanted beers—thank god—the other wanted a whiskey sour.
Shit. I glance up to scan the bar, fumbling as I fill the glass with ice, whiskey, and sour mix.
Is that right? I think this is normally made with egg whites?
Hell, I don’t know. And hell if I know how to do that.
I place an orange slice on the rim and call it good enough.
Another chuckle. “You interested in making money with this bar?” the stranger asks.
I grit my teeth, the apology I was debating immediately disappearing like a gust of wind. Who the hell does this guy think he is?
“Are we gonna have a problem?” I spit. “First, you walk in here and laugh at me when I overpoured your beer. Then you ask me if I want to make money at the bar I own? Yeah. I do want to make money. Kind of why I opened the place.” I suck my teeth.
“I don’t need some stranger waltzing in here criticizing my every move. ”
He tilts his head, lips pursed as he swirls the beer in his glass before taking a sip. “Got it.”
I huff away, deliver the drinks to the table, then walk back.
DING!
Fuck.
I hate that goddamn bell.
A few more customers pop in. Only in Wisconsin is a bar this busy at noon on a weekday. And I have no bartender. Fantastic.
I quickly take their orders, thanking god, once again, that this is a beer town and everyone orders something on draft. Each time I pull the tap, I notice the annoyingly handsome stranger watching carefully, his eyes never wandering far.
As I pour another, the damn beer stops flowing. Great. Just what I need—no one to cover the bar and I have to swap the keg.
“Gotta check something in the back for a second…be right back!” I say to everyone, and no one all at once.
I head off to see what the hell is going on and find an empty keg.
I work to change it as quickly as I can, knowing the bar is getting busy.
Bethany will need another refill shortly.
I need to check on the three-top at the table, and I swear I’ve heard that damn bell ring at least twice since I’ve been back here.
And that doesn’t even take into account how flustered I am with that damn chiseled jaw watching, ready to pounce on every mistake.
Walking out of the backroom, a cold ache settles in my chest, my stomach twisting like a corkscrew as I see an empty bar stool right where he was sitting.
Gone.
I let out a loud sigh. It’s probably for the best. I swear to god that man specifically came in here to be a jackass and—
My thought is interrupted by a sound that is, for once, decidedly not the bell.
Not even close.
The smooth timbre hits me deep in the chest before the rest of me catches up with what the hell is going on.
“Another vodka tonic coming right up!” The words come from behind the bar.
From the man with a deep southern drawl.
The one whose eyes have been glued to me like a bug on a fly trap.
The man who has ditched his coveralls and is wearing a tight-as-hell white t-shirt tucked into a worn pair of jeans.
The man who is now standing behind my bar making a drink for my customers.
I remind myself to close my mouth. What the hell is happening?
I’m about to grab him by the shirt and toss him out of my bar when something deep in my gut stops me. I stand frozen, eyes narrowed and breath short, mimicking what he’s done to me since the moment he walked in.
Let’s see him pour a drink with someone watching his every move.
I want to criticize everything he’s doing. Snicker when he makes a mistake. Call him out for every little misstep. But I can’t.
Shit. He’s good at this.
He pours Bethany’s drink with ease, lifting the bottle up high for what seems to be the perfect amount of time with the perfect form.
He grabs the soda gun to fill it the rest of the way, before adding the lime I clearly forgot, and hands it over to her, easily shifting and talking to another guest who must have come in while I was gone.
He smiles, warm and welcoming as he takes their order.
My breath hitches as I watch his calloused hand grab a pint glass, tilting it at a precise angle to start, then slowly straightening it.
The foam on the top and the golden lager beneath make it look like it’s straight out of a magazine.
I blink, forcing myself to acknowledge this is actually happening when he catches my gaze.
It’s a quick, quiet look, before returning to the task at hand.
The quickness matches my pulse, but the quiet is not a thing my heart is capable of right now.
I furiously rub my fingers against my flannel, trying to calm down whatever the hell is happening in my veins.
If I didn’t know this shirt was red, I’d be convinced my blood is pumping out of my chest. My feet walk the length of the bar before I can stop them, my anger from earlier evaporating like the melted snow in spring.
“Thanks.”
He doesn’t look up from the drink he’s making. “Looked like you needed the help.”
“I did. I do,” I say with a crack in my voice. “You’re a bartender?”
“Used to be. Haven’t done it in a while, but it’s like riding a bike. Question is…are you?”
I huff out a quiet laugh. “I guess that’s a pretty obvious no, huh?
I’m just a guy who was crazy enough to buy a bar not knowing anything about making drinks.
I hired someone, but he was a no-show today.
First week open and my first employee quit after a few days.
I thought I could surely make a few drinks but…
” I rub my hand across the back of my neck. “You can see how well that’s going.”
He passes a drink to a customer across the bar, wiping his hands off on a towel tucked into his waistband before reaching out his hand to shake mine.
“Johnny,” he says, his voice calm. Deep. Inviting. Our palms touch, his rough fingers wrapping around the top of my hand with a firm grip. “Happy to help you out for the rest of the day if you like.”
“Nice to meet you. Name’s Walt,” I mutter, his hand still in mine, my heart hammering in my chest and my mind wondering why I can’t seem to pull back from his touch.
He lets go, his gaze still fixed on mine. “Like the name of the bar?”
I snicker. “Yeah. Exactly that. And I…I’d appreciate the help, Johnny.”
The blue in his iris vanishes for a split second as he winks. “You got it, boss.”