Chapter 19
Welcome to The Rusty Anchor, where the fire roars, the roof leaks, and the bar gives you a splinter every time you slide your money across it.
Uncle Finn hates that I work here. He says the place should have been shut down years ago, because there’s no way it turns a profit selling chicken wings and cheap beer to the same twenty port workers.
He also says not to get him started on the health and safety issues that come with welding two decaying shipping containers together, balancing them on the side of a cliff, and filling them with fat drunk men.
It turns out, The Rusty Anchor is some sort of architectural miracle; it survived the port explosion with little more than a few busted windows. With my boss, Eddie, not being one for sensitivity or tact, it was business as usual a mere few days after it happened.
Only, it isn’t business as usual at all.
People are dead, everyone else is laid off.
A handful of locals have turned up, probably with nowhere else to go, and are drowning their sorrows in the bar’s darkest corners.
It’d be an unbearably slow shift tonight if it weren’t for Tayce and Rory propping up the end of the bar, and the gaggle of out-of-towners who stormed through the front door ten minutes after opening.
Businessmen and rich tourists heading for the bright lights of Devil’s Cove end up in the drowsy town of Devil’s Dip all the time, especially during the festive period.
The signs on the highway are confusing, and if you take an exit too early, the next sign you’ll see is the flickering neon one slapped on the side of this bar.
They usually just duck in and ask for directions, all while keeping one eye on their belongings and the other on the suspicious stain on the rug. Not these guys, though. They strolled in, shook the rain off their suits, and didn’t stop for a second to read the somber mood in the room.
As soon as one of them snapped their fingers in my direction and ordered a cocktail I had to Google, I knew I’d be running off my feet tonight, especially since I’m flying solo.
Dan called in sick, and though I feel sick for a different reason, one with rough hands and inked skin, I don’t have the luxury to do that. I need the money too bad.
Sweeping Tayce’s beer bottle off the bar and replacing it with a fresh one, I turn my attention back to Rory. She’s holding a fan of playing cards, and the frown denting her brow tells me she’s not happy with her suit.
“Okay, but like, what does he actually do?”
Tayce tosses down the Four of Clubs, and Rory bites out a bird pun. “He’s head of security,” she snaps, taking her irritation out on me. “He makes sure my husband doesn’t get murdered.”
“But how?”
“By looking like that,” Tayce murmurs, studying her hand.
Rory stabs a thumb over her shoulder to the man in a suit standing behind the Christmas tree.
If he’s trying to hide, he’s not doing a very good job.
Partly because Eddie bought the cheapest, skinniest tree on sale, but mainly because he’s huge.
“By having loads of scary-looking men like Gio hanging around.”
“Does he carry a gun?”
“Gabe?” she tuts. “Of course not.”
Heat flames my cheeks.
Well, he certainly had a damn gun last night.
I snatch up Rory’s wineglass though it’s still half full. Ignoring her protests, I pour the contents down the sink and scrub it clean with trembling hands.
Gabriel’s touch was non-existent, but it’s gotten under my skin and grown roots. They’ve tangled around my lungs and made it hard to breathe. They’ve wrapped around my wrists too, so every time I look down at them, I’m reminded of being strung up and restrained.
A white-hot heat rolls through my core for the millionth time today. A bead of sweat trickles down the small of my back. Guilt mixed with pleasure is a foul-tasting cocktail.
I hate that man in daylight.
But in the dark …
“Why’s a girl like you working in a dive like this?”
From the end of the bar, I hear Tayce scoff. I drop the glass, it shatters in the sink, and my sigh follows the shards down the drain. Eddie is the biggest penny-pincher on the planet, so no doubt he’ll dock the cost of it from my wages.
Although I’m on a knife’s edge—and every time the door opens, the ghost of gasoline and leather blows in—it won’t stop me from spinning around with a sunny smile and a chirpy what can I get ya? Because I’m nothing if not nice.
I sweep the broken glass into the trash and turn around. My smile loses its plastic edges, and I stand up a little straighter.
It’s him.
The quiet guy with the neat hair and the kind brown eyes that have been following me around since he and his fellow out-of-towners walked in.
I know because my eyes have been following him around too.
That’s also how I know he has dimples. I watched them deepen when I told his buddy the cocktail he ordered—an Aperol Spritz—sounded like a dollar-store perfume.
With a light laugh, I wipe my soapy hands on the back of my miniskirt and rack my brain for a witty response. Telling him I need the cash before heading off to college next fall is too boring, and it simply won’t do.
I ball a dishrag in my hand and grin up at him. “If I had a dollar for every time someone asked me that, I wouldn’t have to work in a dive like this.”
His shoulders shake with amusement. It was a good answer. As his gaze leaves mine and sweeps the room, I rake my fingers through my bangs and gawp up at him from underneath them.
Tayce will tell me off for staring, but I can’t help it.
I’ve decided this man isn’t just cute, he’s handsome, and it’s making my skin all warm.
I like the cut of his suit, how perfectly the pink of his tie matches the color of my cropped fluffy sweater.
I like that he brought his empty wineglass back to the bar. I like that he drinks wine.
His eyes follow mine down to the glass. “That tasted like vinegar, by the way.”
I lean against the bar, fluttering my lash extensions. “And if I had a dollar for every time someone told me that, I wouldn’t have to work at all.”
Tayce groans, but I ignore it because he laughs.
Now I like that about him too.
Our eyes lock for a beat too long, and the warmth seeps through my pores and into my stomach. I squeeze the dishrag tighter, ignoring the burn in my wrists, and take stock of the situation.
Eyes locking, butterflies dancing, laughter floating.
Ladies and gentleman, this might be it. I’m finally getting my meet-cute.
My heart beats faster. I mean, I’m not a waitress working in a cocktail bar, but a bartender working in a dump that sells two beers for five dollars is close enough, right?
“Well, you’re far too cute to be working here.”
“Believe me, she knows,” Tayce grunts, glugging from her beer.
“Shut up, Tayce,” I hiss through my smile. “Let him tell me.”
Kind Eyes glances over at her in amusement, then looks to the wonky Christmas tree. He nods to the bare branches at the top of it. “I thought the angel was supposed to go on top of the tree, not work behind a bar?”
Flushing red, I stifle a squeal of delight, reach over, and playfully push him on the chest. “Oh, stop that.”
He laughs. “What’s your name?”
I squint up at him, suddenly shy. “Wren Harlow. What’s yours?”
“I’m David. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Wren.”
“David,” I repeat, saying his name slowly, thoughtfully. Toying with the idea of saying it for the rest of my life and saving it in my cellphone contact list with a little love heart emoji. Moaning it in his ear as we make love on our wedding night.
Wren and David, David and Wren.
And just like that, the warmth in my stomach cools to tepid, and the view beyond my rose-tinted glasses dims to gray.
I nod, smile, and mutter something about it being a nice name. That’s just what you do when someone tells you what they’re called. And it is, I suppose. It’s just not the name of The One.
Doesn’t have the same ring as Wren and Gabe, either.
A shock zaps through me, and I silently scold myself for daring to even think it.
David asks for another wine. I pour it with a polite laugh and some small talk, but my heart is already over it. My head too preoccupied with veins on biceps and gruff commands.
The conversation soon dies, and when he retreats to his friends, the night’s soundtrack takes over.
Drunken anecdotes ebb and flow; rain fights through the crack in the roof and sloshes into the bucket in the corner.
“Top of the World” by Carpenters fizzes out of the jukebox for the millionth time.
It’s a hunk of a machine as old as the bar itself.
A few months ago, one of the locals punched it in a liquor-fueled rage, and it’s only ever played this song since.
It’s not in Eddie’s budget to replace it.
“You’re still here. I thought you’d be riding into the sunset by now.” Tayce smirks when I approach, giving the playing cards a lazy shuffle. “What happened?”
Lesson two happened. But instead, I say, “His name is David.”
“Oh gosh, what a travesty.”
I brush off her sarcasm. “Oh well. I’m used to the disappointment.
” I let out a dramatic sigh and put the dishrag in my hand to work, wiping away water rings and my stupid daydreams. “It wasn’t explosive enough to be my meet-cute anyway.
If The One doesn’t crash into me at a coffee shop and spill his Americano down my dress and then awkwardly scrub at my boobs with a napkin, I don’t want it. ”
“Wren.” Rory puts down her cards. “What I’m about to say comes from a place of love.” She takes a deep breath. “You need to start dating.”
I roll my eyes. Not this crap again. I swear, we’ve had this conversation more times than I’ve curled my hair. “And I will start dating. When I meet The One.”
She places a warm hand over mine. “But to meet The One, you’ve got to wade through The Many.”