Chapter 22
Finn
The bar was quiet—the calm before the storm. Mark was setting up for the evening rush, restocking beer coolers and checking inventory. From the kitchen, I could hear the familiar sounds of chopping and sizzling that meant Rod and Carlos were already deep into their prep.
“You’re early,” Mark said without looking up from the wine cooler he was organizing.
“I’m prepared.”
“You’re nervous.”
“I’m not—” I stopped. “Okay, maybe I’m a little nervous.”
“About the interviews or about texting Chase seventeen times since you woke up?”
I felt my face heat. “I haven’t texted him seventeen times.”
“You’re right. Sorry.” Mark pulled out his phone and scrolled. “It was nineteen. I counted.”
“How do you—”
“You get this look every time your phone buzzes, like someone just told you they were bringing you free tacos.” He grinned. “You’ve got text neck, Finn. It’s tragic.”
“Text neck isn’t a thing—”
“It’s absolutely a thing. You’re going to need physical therapy by the time you go on this date.”
“I hate you.”
“No, you love me and my ability to see through your bullshit.” Mark closed the cooler and leaned against the bar. “So. Four interviews. You ready?”
“As ready as I’ll ever be to meet more professional spring breakers.”
“At least today they have to show up in person. It’s harder to fake credentials face-to-face.”
“We hope.”
The door opened, and a woman walked in. She looked to be in her early thirties, was dressed professionally, and carried a portfolio. Morgan Hayes was right on time.
“Here we go,” I muttered.
“Good luck,” Mark said. “Try not to panic-hire the first person who walks through the door.”
“That was one time—”
“You hired Jacks in thirty seconds.”
“Jacks is great, and he’s super cute.”
“Cute is not part of our hiring criteria, you neanderthal. And Jacks is a golden retriever in human form who didn’t know what a jigger was.”
“He’s learning.”
Morgan cleared her throat. “Hi. I’m here for the bartender interview?”
I plastered on my professional smile. “Morgan. Thanks for coming. I’m Finn.”
Morgan was everything her resume suggested.
She was competent, professional, and experienced.
She worked at The Guild for five years, knew her way around craft cocktails, and had proven she could handle high volume.
She answered my questions with the kind of practiced ease that came from years of experience.
She was perfect.
But she was also boring.
Not in a bad way, just in a “this would be a perfectly fine working relationship with zero personality” kind of way. She was qualified and seemed reliable.
But something felt like it was missing.
I thanked her, told her I’d be in touch. She left at 2:45.
David Kim showed up at three on the dot. He was good, too, with four years at a sports bar in Clearwater. He talked about his previous job with enthusiasm and asked good questions about our concept, our clientele, and our plans for growth.
He was also perfectly fine.
And perfectly boring.
By the time he left at 3:45, I was starting to panic. Two perfectly qualified candidates and neither of them got me excited. Neither of them had that spark, that personality that would fit with the chaos of Barbacks and the energy of our growing team.
“Stop overthinking,” Mark said when I slumped against the bar between interviews. “They were both good.”
“Good isn’t great.”
“Good is employed and capable of mixing drinks without setting anything on fire.”
“But do they fit? Do they get what we’re trying to do here? Will they ‘wow’ our customers or simply deliver what they order?”
“Finn, they’re bartenders, not life partners.”
“They’re going to be working with us every day. Personality matters.”
Mark opened his mouth to argue, then stopped. “Okay, fair point, but you can’t expect every candidate to be perfect.”
“I’m not expecting perfect. I’m expecting—”
In that moment, the door didn’t just open; it exploded inward as though someone had kicked it in, which—based on the guy walking in carrying two iced coffees and what looked like a skateboard tucked under one arm—might have actually happened.
“OKAY, so I’m not late. You’re early. There’s a difference!
” He announced this to the entire empty bar.
“Also, I brought you coffee because interviews are boring and everyone deserves caffeine. I didn’t know how you take it, so I got one regular and one with like seventeen pumps of vanilla. Pick your poison.”
Benji was Korean-American, maybe twenty-five, and wore a vintage Nirvana T-shirt that was from an actual concert in 1993 and therefore cost more than my rent. His black jeans were ripped in places that seemed structural rather than fashionable. His neon green Converse hurt to look at directly.
And his hair was pink.
Not dyed pink in a salon.
Pink pink.
Like he’d woken up and decided cotton candy was a personality.
“You’re Benji?” I asked, because what else was there to say.
“I’m Benji Kwon, the best bartender you’re going to interview today, possibly ever, and I’m the most fun you’ll ever have at parties.
” He set both coffees on the bar and stuck out his hand.
“You’re Finn, you own this place with—” He looked at Mark.
“Silver Fox over there, and you’re freaking out because your first two interviews were very qualified and very boring. Am I right?”
Mark choked on nothing.
“How did you—” I started.
“I saw them leave. They had that ‘I’m a responsible adult with a 401(k)’ energy.
Which is great, I guess. Love that for them.
But also, like, this is a gay sports bar in Ybor.
You need someone with personality, not someone who’s going to alphabetize your liquor bottles and call it a day.
” He picked up the regular coffee and took a sip.
“This one’s mine. The diabetes in a cup is yours. ”
“I didn’t say I wanted coffee—”
“You do, though. You look exhausted. When did you last sleep? Don’t answer that; it’s written all over your face. Drink the coffee, ask me anything, and prepare to be amazed.”
I looked at Mark, who was trying very hard not to laugh.
Then I looked at the vanilla coffee that had enough sugar to put me in a diabetic coma.
With the reluctance of a child reaching for a snake, I picked it up and took a sip.
It was delicious. Damn it.
“Okay,” I said. “Tell me about your experience.”
“Four years bartending, started at Southern Nights in Orlando—yes, that one; yes, it was intense; yes, I have stories that would make your hair curl.” He said this all in one breath.
“I learned to work fast, work clean, and work under pressure, because when you’re slammed with three hundred half-naked, fully drunk people who all want their next drink now, you either figure it out or you die. I figured it out.”
“And after that?”
“I moved to Manifest in Tampa. It’s a craft cocktail spot, very fancy and very pretentious.
I learned all the proper techniques and how to make drinks that cost thirty dollars and come with a single ice cube that took four hours to make.
” He rolled his eyes. “I left because the owner kept hitting on me—and not in the fun way. I’ve been freelancing since then, working weddings, corporate events, and one bar mitzvah that got out of hand, but we don’t talk about that. ”
“Do you have references?”
“I have references, a portfolio, and a hundred fifty-three thousand TikTok followers who watch me make drinks while I explain the gay history of cocktails. Did you know the Cosmopolitan was invented by a gay bartender in Provincetown? Most people don’t.
I teach them while doing bottle tricks. Sometimes I sing.
I almost tried to make it on Broadway, so the singing part is fun for me and stops the scroll.
It’s a whole thing.” He pulled out his phone. “Want to see?”
“I, uh, sure?” I snuck a peek at Mark. The idiot just shrugged and pretended to be wiping down the perfectly clean bar.
Benji leaned in and turned his phone around.
His TikTok was already loaded. I watched him make something elaborate while simultaneously explaining that the martini was named after a gay bartender named Martinez.
He did some kind of complicated bottle flip that should not have worked but did, then finished the routine by singing his own adaptation of Frozen during the final pour.
The comments were filled with fire emojis and marriage proposals.
“Your voice is insane,” slipped out. “And . . . sweet Mother Mary, you have a lot of followers.”
“I’m very entertaining. Also, I’m hot and have a wide singing range.
It’s a good combination.” He said this with zero irony.
“But here’s the thing—I’m not just a social media bartender.
I’m good at this. Like, really good. And I love it, which shows in the performance and comes through in the quality of the drinks.
I can make anything you throw at me, I work fast, I’m great with customers, and I’ll bring in business because people will come just to watch me work.
My Insta and TikTok will be free advertising for the bar. ”
“You’re very confident,” Mark observed from his perch behind the bar. He’d stopped cleaning and had both fists balled on his hips, one still holding a towel.
“I’m Korean. My mom didn’t raise me to undersell myself.” Benji grinned. “Also, I’m gay and grew up in Orlando. You either develop confidence or you develop a complex. I chose confidence.”
“Can you handle high volume?” I asked. “We get pretty busy.”
“I’ve worked Spring Break on Miami Beach.
If I can survive fifteen thousand drunk straight girls on a bachelorette tour, I can survive anything you throw at me.
” He paused. “Wait, no, that sounded bad. I love drunk straight girls. They tip amazing and they’re always so excited about everything. But God, they’re exhausting.”
“What about—”