8. Banks
It’s another hour before I can finally give Ember the green light. By then, it’s past seven, prime time for the evening rush. Clover’s short-staffed—it’s just Navy and another bartender, Chris, who just made it in.
“Josie called out,” she explains, flipping on the lights behind the bar. “Something about bad sushi and food poisoning.”
My shift technically ended an hour ago, but instead of heading home after I checked out at the station, I came back here. Now, I’m hovering in Ember’s doorway, watching Clover orchestrate a chaotic reopening. “Need a hand?” The question leaves my mouth before I can talk myself out of it.
She pauses mid-grab for a gin bottle, one eyebrow lifting. “You know how to bartend, Priestly?”
“I can pour a beer without embarrassing myself. And I’m a fast learner.”
She weighs me with her gaze, clearly deciding whether I’m more trouble than I’m worth. Finally, she nods. “We could use the help until the night crew gets here at nine. But you follow my lead.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I strip off my hooded sweatshirt, left in the black tee I had on underneath, then scrub my hands at the sink.
“You’ll work service well,” she instructs, pointing me to the side of the bar where drinks get made but not served directly to patrons. “Navy’ll take orders; I’ll handle the main bar. You cover the basic stuff—beer, wine, simple mixed drinks. Think you can handle that?”
“Pretty sure I can manage pouring liquid from one container into another without a catastrophe.” I grin at the annoyed little twitch her mouth makes, and the way her eyes shine under the bar lights as she glares at me.
“We’ll see.” She tosses me a bar towel. “First rule: keep your station clean. Second rule: don’t overthink it. Third: when in doubt, ask.”
“Oh good, more rules.”
She flips me off and I laugh, but she’s the boss here. I may give her shit, but I’ll behave.
So for the next hour, I do just that—pour beers, pop wine bottles, mix easy requests—while Clover does her thing like a pro. It’s more intense than I expected: juggling multiple orders, staying in sync with Navy, making sure everything’s labeled right. Watching Clover is mesmerizing. She somehow keeps three or four cocktails going at once, chatting up customers, and managing this well-oiled bar machine.
The bar’s narrow, so we’re constantly brushing past each other, reaching for bottles or glassware. Every accidental touch lights up my skin. At one point, she slips behind me to grab vermouth and her back presses against my chest—I stifle a groan at the jolt of need that rips through me.
“You’re in my way, Priestly,” she murmurs, but her tone’s more sultry than irritated. The kind of heat that has nothing to do with annoyance. I move aside, but not before I catch the faint pink on her cheeks.
“Tight quarters back here.”
“You being built like a damn linebacker doesn’t help.” She snags a shaker from the shelf, her arm brushing mine. “You’re doing okay, by the way. For a rookie.”
Coming from Clover, that’s basically a standing ovation. “I have a good teacher.”
Her gaze flashes up to mine. It’s warm, almost surprised, and it makes my heart thud harder than it should. “There’s a table asking for an Ember Old Fashioned. Want me to show you how to make our signature drink?”
"Absolutely."
She shifts closer, placing herself between me and the bar so I have to look over her shoulder to see. The pressure of her back against my chest spikes my temperature about ten degrees. I bite my cheek to keep from groaning when her ass brushes against my dick. “Start with the glass—an Old Fashioned tumbler.” She sets it down. “Now a sugar cube.”
I manage to drop the cube in, even though half my blood is currently rushing south. The tight space and the scent of her shampoo—fresh and citrusy—turns my brain to static.
“Three dashes of orange bitters,” she says, grabbing the bottle. Instead of handing it over, she covers my hand with hers, guiding me as I shake bitters onto the sugar. Her fingers are soft and warm against mine. Having her between me and the bar, caged in by my body while she shows me how to make her signature drink—it's the sweetest kind of torture. Every cell in my body is screaming to turn her around, pin her against the counter, and claim that smart mouth. To make it clear to every man in this place that she's off limits.
But I don’t. Instead, I stand there, every muscle tense, letting her lead me through the motions.
“Muddle it,” she instructs, handing me the wooden muddler. Our fingers tangle a second before she pulls away. “Not too hard. We just want the sugar dissolved, not to shatter the glass.”
I nod, but my gaze is locked on the curve of her neck. All I can think about is how I want to kiss her there. Suck a mark into her skin. She must feel how hard I am—there’s no way she doesn’t. Any second now, I’m gonna lose it and do something that gets me stabbed or fired or both.
Fuck, she’s going to kill me. Or her brother’s going to when he finds out I’m into his little sister. I don’t know how much longer I can hide it.
"Now muddle it," she instructs, pressing the wooden muddler into my palm. Our fingers tangle briefly before she withdraws. "Not too hard. You want to dissolve the sugar, not pulverize the glass."
For now, though, I follow her order, muddling the sugar and trying not to think about how good her lips would taste if I turned her around and kissed the fuck out of her. Because damn if she isn’t worth all the trouble that’ll follow.
“Now the whiskey,” she says, her voice dipping lower. “Two ounces, exactly.”
She hands me the jigger, and I pour the amber liquid with more care than I’ve ever shown anything in my life. Our fingers brush again, and this time there’s no mistaking it—she’s either fucking with me, or she wants this as bad as I do.
“Ice,” she continues, leaning around me to grab one large, crystal-clear cube from the well. "We use a single large cube for less dilution."
When she slides that ice into the glass, her back stays pressed against my chest for a few too many heartbeats. The heat of her body radiates through her thin shirt, and I’m half convinced my heart’s about to leap straight through my rib cage.
“Finally, the twist,” she murmurs, a little breathless. She takes an orange peel and shows me how to press the oils over the drink, then rubs it along the rim before dropping it inside. “And that’s our Ember Old Fashioned.”
She turns in the circle of my arms, the drink behind her on the bar. We’re close enough that I can count the freckles on her nose, see the darker flecks in her blue eyes. Her lips part, gaze dipping to my mouth.
For a heartbeat, I’m sure she’s about to close the distance and kiss me. Her pupils are blown wide, cheeks flushed pink, breath coming quicker than normal. My entire body coils, ready to catch her mouth with mine. Her tongue flicks out, wetting her bottom lip, and it almost snaps my control. My hand clenches so hard on the bar’s edge that the wood groans under my grip.
“Clover? A word, please.”
We jolt apart like kids getting caught making out in the janitor’s closet. Theo, Ember’s owner and Clover’s boss, stands at the end of the bar with a smirk as he eyes us. Clover clears her throat, and in the blink of an eye, she’s all business again, smoothing her shirt and refusing to meet my eyes.
“Coming.” She brushes past me, and I swear her hands are shaking, but I can’t be sure. “Take that Old Fashioned to table seven,” she calls over her shoulder. “Then you’ve got a gin and tonic, another G&T, and a vodka soda.”
I track her with my gaze, watching the subtle sway in her hips, the elegant curve of her neck as she leans in to hear whatever Theo’s saying. An ache lodges in my chest—an awareness that what I’m feeling isn’t just about wanting to get her under me. I mean, that’s definitely part of it, but it’s also the way she took charge earlier, how people automatically looked to her for guidance. It’s the gentle patience in her hands when she was teaching me this drink, and the flicker of vulnerability in her eyes when she almost—almost—gave in.
I’m falling for Clover James. No parachute, no backup plan, just free-falling. And if I do, I’m risking everything: Kasen’s trust, my promise to watch out for his sister, not fall in love with her. Once I cross that line, there’s no undoing it, and the scariest part is how little I care.
Navy sidles up next to me, snapping me out of my head. “You’re screwed, Firefighter.” Her grin is equal parts smug and sympathetic. “I’ve never seen her give anyone that look before.”
“What look?” I can’t help asking, even though I already know the answer.
“Like she can’t decide if she wants to slap you or climb you like a goddamn tree.” Navy snatches the ticket from my hand and starts mixing the drinks I’m supposed to be making. “If I had to bet? She’s going for the tree.”
I face the bar again, trying to force my brain onto the job instead of the words Navy just dropped. But my attention keeps drifting toward Clover, who’s deep in conversation with Theo, her brow creased in concentration.
She glances up, and for a split second, the mask falls. Hot, raw hunger flickers in her eyes, and then she shuts it down, looking away.
Yeah, I’m in so much trouble here. And I’m not sure I give a damn.