Chapter 4
FOUR
“What’s the hang up?” Zac asked, despite there being no mention of my having one of those.
“Well, would you look at the time?” I glanced at my wrist, where beaded bracelets stacked together in an earthen-toned rainbow, nary a clock face in the mix. Then, in a motion so practiced I often had the rag in my hand without remembering grabbing it, I slipped the rectangle of cloth off my shoulder and rubbed an extra shiny spot in the already gleaming wooden counter.
Mondays weren’t exactly hopping, but there should be a fairly steady influx of people coming in soon.
I glanced toward the door.
Any minute now…
Zac’s stare grew heavier by the second, and the silent treatment had always required too much patience and restraint for my liking. It was just so damn boring . This was what I meant about the sibling thing—I’d longed for one growing up, but now that I had a few surrogate big brothers to pester me and meddle in my affairs, they could be a total pain in my ass.
“I’ve been really busy trying to train Nova,” I finally said, unable to take the staring anymore. “And with the uptick in sales for my intention candles coming in through my Etsy shop, maybe that’s enough.”
Zac arched a dark eyebrow, his barbell piercing winking red and blue beneath the bar lights. “You’ve been talking about going in on a shared storefront for almost a year now. The cash prize for the contest would cover the initial deposit and a couple months’ rent so you can at least see.”
Self-doubt shoved the oxygen from my lungs, leaving them too tight to intake fresh air. Used to be, I’d take that chance. Roll that dice. Blend up an array of cocktails in front of an audience of my peers and present the concoctions to the judge with a flourish, never once wavering in my assuredness.
Not that I hadn’t crashed and burned plenty—but I’d always popped back up, bloody shins and all.
There were so damn many “ifs” involved, stacked up on top of one another, and they seemed that much more formidable.
If I could come up with something innovative and delicious.
If I connected with the judges and our tastes ran similar.
If I truly wanted to commit to a storefront and possible career change.
And that was if I didn’t die of alcohol poisoning beforehand, as the paperwork and painfully detailed instructions and guidelines meant I’d be drinking every cocktail I’d mixed or contemplated mixing.
But the biggest one of all…? If my nerves would even allow me to step onto any sort of stage ever again.
Humiliation had burned deep, leaving an emotional scar that sealed my lips and shackled my feet. Not wanting to go anywhere near there, I quickly veered toward flippancy. “Trying to get rid of me?”
“Not only is it free publicity for the Drunken Kraken, when people hear about our award-winning mixologist”—Zac clapped me on the back—“they’ll rush in for a specialty cocktail, so no, definitely not trying to get rid of you. You know you’ll always have a place here, no matter what. Doesn’t mean I’m not gonna push you to go after what you truly want.”
Without giving me a chance to counter, he gestured for Catalina to climb over the bar, evidently too impatient to wait for her to walk around. “Now, if you’ll excuse us,” he said, grunting a little as Catalina flung her legs over the bar and leapt into his arms, “we’re going to do a quick inventory.”
“Of each other’s bodies,” Catalina snarked, planting a smacking kiss on his lips as she snaked her legs around his waist extra tight.
Back when the two of them were nothing more than fuck buddies, they frequented the bar’s supply closet. Once they’d faked an engagement and accidentally ended up in a real relationship, they’d decided to make it work, no matter how opposite their schedules. Which meant that closet now saw more action than a Quentin Tarantino movie.
During the rest of the night, patrons showed up in tiny clusters, with a straggler here and there thrown in for good measure. During slow stretches, I’d tap my pen to my notepad, as if that’d make the perfect cocktail recipe suddenly take shape in my brain.
Think, Zoie. Before my time at the Drunken Kraken, I’d slung drinks for five different restaurants and bars over the span of a handful of years. What’d impress the judges? What’d stand out?
Whenever people asked me for a drink recommendation, I asked their astrological sign. While most seem a tad confused by the query, they go along for the ride as I prompt them with a follow-up or two that’ll assist me in presenting them with their perfect cocktail. The personal touch was always popular, but not always possible within time constraints.
Which did give me an idea. I wasn’t sure how to tailor it yet, or if it’d be possible to do with more than one judge but figuring out where to start was easy enough.
On Aries, naturally.
I fiddled with my lower lip as I scanned the shelves upon shelves of liquor bottles, from the most intriguing containers to unique flavors, waiting for one to catch my eye. Tall and opaque with a cork topper, smooth or bumpy, or vintage style with a bejeweled lid?
Was it weird that made it feel more like dating?
No matter, there were unique flavors, still undiscovered, and that fueled the creative spark within me. Right now, there was no audience, no stage. Just me, about any and every variation of any type of spirit I could think of, and a handful of customers with freshly filled drinks.
No pressure.
Ice clanked against the metal sides of the cocktail shaker, and after measuring in the vodka, lavender syrup and triple sec, I closed the lid and shook, shook, shook. My palm turned frosty in seconds, and the rattle drowned out all other noises as I let my senses and the ingredients inside tell me when it was ready.
The liquid came out delightfully peachy-pink and slightly frothy.
I lifted it to my lips and sipped. “Hmm. Too sweet. Needs more fire.”
As much as I hated to admit it, Zac had been right to nudge. If I found the right drink combination, I could fake it till I made it with my confidence and, with any luck, the universe and I would figure out how to be all copacetic again along the way.
Exhausted from being on my feet all day, I trudged up the sidewalk.
No matter how long my day or how much humiliation I’d landed myself in, at least Nova would be happy to see me. Whether I’d been gone for six minutes or six hours, he’d greet me with the same level of enthusiasm, and I rushed up the steps faster, only to slow my pace as I caught sight of the envelope taped to the door.
Did something happen with my rent check?
Are my Utilities all paid up?
No, neither of those applied—my landlord and the electric company would just send bills in angry red or light up my cell phone. I glanced around, noting the people out and about. There weren’t many, as it was half past two in the morning. Lately I’d been working closing shift to give Zac and Catalina more time together. At one point, I’d been optimistic enough to think he’d be returning the favor once Graham and I started cozying up.
A cold breeze prickled my skin, the brine from the ocean air causing a shiver that seems to rub in the fact that I’ll have no one besides myself to warm me up for the foreseeable future. One more quick scan, and I snagged the envelope off the door and charged inside, already ripping the flap open.
But the instant the door snicked closed, Nova began barking—and then whimpering—within her crate. I felt so guilty leaving him locked up, but I couldn’t afford him destroying any more of my stuff. I’d read about leaving toys, purchasing their own furniture, and marking my off-limits belongings with a scent that dogs didn’t like.
Nova couldn’t give less of a shit.
My doggie had a very particular set of skills, and they all ended in destruction. Boundless energy filled every inch of his body, and I’d taken him for longer and longer walks in the name of tuckering him out, only to be struggling to stay upright during my shifts at the bar.
Ethan assured me that if I crate-trained him right, he’d consider it his safe space. He’d owned a few dogs growing up, whereas Nova was my first. He was more destructive than I ever imagined a dog could be, but every day we spent together I fell that much harder, and I’d do about anything for his cute, troublemaking little face.
“Hi, baby,” I said, opening the gate and receiving a thorough face-licking. I rubbed down his sides, paying extra attention to the wrinkled fur on his lower abdomen and legs. He climbed into my lap, not waiting for me to move to the couch first.
Since I was tired, and he was content, I wanted to remain there and read the letter, but I’d learned my lesson last time. Even though I’d also said I’d learned it the time before, when my battered sequin pillow was turned puppy-urine yellow. Point was, if I didn’t prioritize Nova going potty, he’d prioritize peeing on something hard to clean, and I so didn’t have the energy for that tonight.
I ushered Nova out the back door, clipped him to the tie-out, and then pointed at the grass and reiterated “Go potty” while he looked at me forlornly. Once he began sniffing out the perfect spot to do his business, I returned to examining the envelope I’d peeled off my door.
“It doesn’t say anything on the outside,” I said to Nova, even though he wasn’t listening to me anymore. I pulled out the paper and let it unroll, the handwritten note intriguing me further.
Then I caught sight of the signature at the bottom.
“Holy shit, holy shit. Graham wrote me a note.” My pulse throbbed a thready rhythm as I skimmed the first line.
“Hope I’m not imposing,” I muttered, “but I was wondering if maybe I could spend some time getting to know…”
Praise Gaia, he’s asking me out!
“…Nova better,”
I finished reading, hope and disappointment colliding. Don’t get me wrong, I was thrilled for my puppy, but a tiny voice whined why not me?
Setting my feelings aside, I called Nova back inside and finished reading Graham’s offer to entertain, play with, and walk my puppy anytime it suited me.
“Aww, he misses his dog back in London,” I told Nova as we reached the couch, pointing at the line in the letter as if he could read. “How cute is that?” Butterflies roared through my gut, going all Eminem on me, guess who’s back? Back again? “ Gah , he made a joke about you both being young enough chaps that you’ll”—I affected the British accent that hadn’t improved over the course of the day—“surely be able to learn a new trick or two.”
Nova was so flattered he nipped at the bottom of the paper, leaving behind bite marks and a trail of slobber.
I lifted the letter out of mouth’s reach. “You’re obviously too young to appreciate a handwritten letter. Don’t you understand how rare it is to get paragraphs of communication rather than a half-assed text with something super deep like ‘wyd?’ That’s the sort of effort I usually have to settle for, Noves. Don’t get me wrong, I totally get why Graham’s smitten with you, because who wouldn’t be?” I wrapped an arm around his middle and squeezed him to me in a side-hug, and his bottom legs went to pedaling as if I were smothering him, when he was the one who followed me into the bathroom and insisted on sharing not just my bed, but my blanket and pillow, too.
After pressing a quick kiss to his head, I released him and fell back against the cushions to read the end of the letter—in Graham’s voice, naturally. He detailed his experience with obedience training as if I’d be asking for his credentials, adding he hoped he hadn’t offended me by suggesting my puppy might need such training—as if Nova’s unruly behavior was any sort of news flash for me.
After forking over a month’s rent for exploratory surgery to retrieve the clump of plastic grapes Nova had eaten out of the decorative bowl on my grandmother’s coffee table, I knew all too well.
The Brit-next-door went on to say it would brighten his day to spend time with Nova, and that while he didn’t usually ask such forward questions, he’d been a wee homesick.
Then he’d signed, sealed, and delivered the letter as aptly as he’d worked his way into my heart.
How could I refuse his request? Not that I wanted to. It would mean planned interactions and getting to know Graham as he got to know Nova.
As tired as I was, I’d only toss and turn if I attempted to go to bed, so I snagged a pen and paper from my workstation and moved to the couch.
Nova brought me his favorite ball and I tossed it down the hallway, grinning at his clumsy run as he careened around the corner, nails scrabbling against the hardwood floor.
Then I began composing a letter to Graham. Not from me, although of course it was from me. Since he’d asked out my dog, it seemed only fitting I pen the reply—I had better handwriting, after all.
Once I finished, I folded the paper, spent way too long searching for a stamp pad I hadn’t used in ages, and then called for Nova.
After rewetting the neon pink ink, I placed the soft pads of his paw against the squishy felt pad and then maneuvered it to the flap of the envelope to leave behind the mark.
There . Graham wasn’t the only one who could be cute, although perhaps I’d accidentally tiptoed into weirdo territory.
Still, as I studied the letter, excitement zipped up my spine, and I couldn’t wait till tomorrow when I could tape it to Graham’s door.
With that, I was ready for bed.
Or at least so I thought, until I went to wash off my makeup and discovered Nova in the middle of a CSI crime scene. Having stolen my ink pad and bitten it in half, fuchsia rivulets of drool dripped from his mouth, a trail of splatters and smudgy pawprints all over the white tile and walls.