23. Twenty-three
I end up in the worst seat in the entire restaurant of Mainely Local.
It’s slammed. Every table is full and there’s a line out the door.
When I asked the hostess if Ethan was in, she pointed silently toward the bar as she held a phone to her ear, taking down a reservation.
I’m sitting between an exposed brick wall that’s rubbing me like a pumice stone and a woman that smells like my dead grandma.
The bartender has been at the other end of the bar the minutes I’ve been there, and all my surveys of the room haven’t given me anyone that looks like Ethan did in the magazine.
My current plan is to just lay it all on the line when I see him. Something like, “Hey! I’m not crazy, but we’ve been emailing. Surprise! I’m here to take that kitchen tour and learn all your secrets.”
I wave my hand again to get the bartender’s attention, to no avail. Still.
The man is struggling to keep up. Several people at the bar have empty glasses, and the drink printer, no doubt orders from the waitstaff, is spitting out so many orders the tickets are falling on the floor.
“Moosehead IPA!” someone calls.
The bartender nods before opening every cooler until he finds the beer.
He still hasn’t looked at me.
A brunette woman with bright red lips and a low-cut top squeezes between two stools and waves slightly. Instantly, he’s in front of her, leaning casually with his back to me and saying something closely as he fills her wine. She laughs. He acts as if the bar isn’t imploding around him and people aren’t waiting for drinks.
Like me.
That move pushes me from patient to pissed.
I’m trying to give him the benefit of the doubt for being ignored. Maybe he’s new. Or blind, I had considered after seeing the state of the bar around him. The way he’s giving all his attention to the woman with melons taking up precious real estate at the bar while I’m smothered between the wall and the scent of bad perfume lets me know he’s able to see just fine.
I bring two fingers to my mouth and let a whistle fly.
The bartender’s head snaps away from the red-lipped lady, and our eyes meet.
Mine narrow before widening.
I can barely breathe.
The woman next to me shifts her weight and somehow pushes me closer to the wall, but I don’t feel it.
Ethan Mills is at the bar because he’s the bad bartender.
He swallows up the distance between us with long strides until he is directly across from me.
“You got my attention. What?” he snaps.
What?
Of all the scenarios I imagined, this was not one of them.
I open my mouth then snap it shut, stunned to silence.
“You make a big show of whistling me over here. You ordering?”
His eyes shoot from me down the busy line of people on stools.
My nostrils flare.
Real-life Ethan is not the same as email Ethan, and I think I might hate him.
I fold my hands on the menu.
“If you weren’t making such a big show of letting your bar sink, I wouldn’t have had to break out my whistle. But you seem to be having a bad day, so I’m going to let it slide. I’ll have the Mountain Mojito and the grilled chicken salad with feta and the house dressing.”
I smile.
“No specialty drinks tonight,” he says.
“I’ll have a regular mojito then,” I order it to be petty.
He’s being a jerk. He’s admitted to me he hates working behind the bar, and there’s nothing I want to see more than him having to muddle mint while people shout drink orders at him.
Which is why my smile widens.
“A regular mojito?” He drops his head back with an incredulous laugh. “No. No mojitos. You can have beer, wine, or a cocktail that requires less than two ingredients.”
His jaw tics.
“What the hell kind of bar has that stupid rule? You have an entire menu called specialty drinks.”
I hold it up to him to prove my point.
“Fine,” he snaps, yanking the menu out of my hand before marching away.
“What’s the deal with him?” I ask the lady sitting next to me, breathing through my mouth.
She shrugs. “Apparently, the regular guy called out tonight.”
“He’s kind of the worst,” I say, watching as Ethan fumbles with an herb that does not look like mint.
Is that basil?
“Honey, look at him. Who cares if he’s the worst?” Perfume lady says with a cocked eyebrow.
I look back at him and study the features I’d already memorized from his magazine photo. His thick head of dark hair has more hints of salt than I could see but his jaw also has a harder edge under the day-old scruff.
“I don’t see it,” I say, trying to convince myself.
She snorts with a shake of her head. “You’re the only one.”
Still, I watch him.
The mojito he finally delivers to me is an abomination.
I take one awful sip before I push back to him. “I’m not going to drink this.”
Rage ignites in his eyes. “Why not?”
His voice is deep and has the slightest tinge of a Maine accent.
I raise my eyebrows. “I watched you use basil. In a mojito. I’m not drinking it. It tastes like gasoline and mouthwash… with basil.”
He starts to argue, but I hold up my hand.
“But.” I smile. “I’m going to help you. I’m a bartender, an impressive one, and you need help.”
His chin jerks back, but he doesn’t look away.
“You’re going to have a mutiny if all those drink tickets don’t get made. Every server here is going to blame you for their bad tips tonight.”
I point to the line of tickets hanging from the printer and the servers waiting at the end of the bar.
“Why would you do that?” His eyes search mine before looking down the bar at the chaos waiting for him.
I shrug. “I don’t have anything else to do.”
“Okay,” he says, somewhat reluctantly.
“Okay.”
I shoot Marin a text before I slide off my stool and circle around to the back of the bar.
“I’m Nel, by the way.”
“Okay, Nel,” he says, slight smirk ghosting his lips, “let’s see how impressive you really are.”