3 COREY
I lean against the polished bar top, while scrolling through inventory numbers on my tablet. Wednesday nights are dead as usual - just a handful of regulars nursing their drinks and watching whatever game is on.
The quiet gives me time to catch up on paperwork, but damn if it isn't boring. It may be dead tonight, but the weekend brings a whole different type of crowd, one that we certainly need more hands on deck to sling drinks for.
The door swings open, letting in a gust of autumn air along with footsteps that make me look up from my screen. My hand stills on my tablet.
In walks a woman who commands the entire fucking room. And trust me, it's a feat to get these old assholes to peel their eyes away from the game highlights.
She's got this wild long curly hair, with hints of electric purple tangled in her tight curls.
Tattoos peek out from under her rolled-up jean jacket - clean linework, artistic pieces, not the typical flash art you see everywhere.
Her combat boots scuff against the floor as she glances around, taking in the exposed brick walls and industrial lighting I spent months perfecting.
I'm drawn to her like a moth to a flame. "Lost?" I set my tablet down, taking in the way she carries herself - confident despite being clearly out of her element.
"Actually, I'm here for an interview. Someone called me regarding the bartending position?" Her eyes drift to the suits clustered around high-tops.
That voice. No fucking way. This is her. "Gryffindor?"
Her face lights up. "Well most of the time I go by Rhea, but that could work too."
I laugh, shaking my head. The universe has a sick sense of humor sometimes. Here I was expecting some college kid trying to make rent, and instead I get this - tattoos, wild hair, and apparently enough of a nerd to spend her nights at pub trivia.
"Corey Mendoza." I extend my hand. "Owner, manager, and secret Potter enthusiast, though I have to admit I'm more of a Ravenclaw myself."
"Rhea Spry." Her handshake is firm, no hesitation. "And really?
You strike me as more Slytherin."
"Ouch. Right for the jugular." I gesture toward the back. "My office is this way.
"Lead the way." She says with a smile.
She follows me past the regulars, some of whom do double-takes at her passing. Can't blame them - she's like a splash of color in a black and white photo.
Once we reach my office, I settle into my leather chair, gesturing for her to take a seat across my desk. The office is minimal - exposed brick like the bar, with just my degrees and a few choice photos on the walls. No need for more.
"So, Rhea. Tell me about yourself. What brings you to bartending?"
She adjusts in her seat, but her posture stays confident.
"Truthfully, I just graduated with my kinesiology degree. I've got a position lined up at a sports medicine clinic, but that doesn't open until spring. Need something to keep me fed until then."
"Kinesiology?" I lean forward, intrigued. "Enlighten me."
"So, body mechanics, rehabilitation, injury prevention." Her eyes drift to the Marine Corps photo on my wall. "Something tells me you know a thing or two about that."
Smart. Observant too. "Did my time. Four years active duty." I tap my fingers on the desk. "Any bartending experience?"
She laughs a deep, rich laugh. It's genuine, not like these shallow women who laugh and nothing and just want you to take them home.
"Not really, besides college. But I learn fast, and I can handle pressure. Plus, I've got a pretty good memory - helps with studying, comes in handy for drink orders too."
"And trivia nights, apparently."
She grins tapping her forehead. "Exactly."
I shuffle through my drawer and pull out our standard paperwork. I have a feeling that even if this girl didn't know the difference between top shelf and bottom shelf I would still hire her.
There's something about her that I haven't quite figured out yet. Wait till Tobias and Julian catch wind of this.
"Dress code is simple - black on black. Jeans are fine as long as they're dark. No profanity, nothing too terribly revealing. We sometimes have an… upscale crowd." I glance at her vintage band tee. "I have a feeling you'll make it work with your own style."
"I clean up nice when needed." She leans forward.
"That I don't doubt," I say with a smile. "Come in tomorrow at six. We'll start with the basics - inventory, setup, standard pours." I slide the paperwork across my desk. "Bring these filled out, and we'll get you started."
Her eyebrows shoot up, and she stares at the paperwork like it might bite. "That's... it? No rigorous interview process? No practical test of my ability to juggle bottles while reciting state liquor laws?"
I can't help but chuckle. "Would you prefer I make it harder? I could ask for your O.W.L. scores."
"No, no," she waves her hands, those silver rings catching the light. "I just... expected more hoops to jump through."
"I've been doing this long enough to know when someone's going to work out." I lean back, studying the way she fidgets with her bracelet. "You've got the right energy for this place. Smart, quick on your feet, and you don't take shit - I can tell that much already."
A blush creeps across her cheeks, and she tries to hide it by ducking her head to look at the paperwork. Interesting. All that confidence, but genuine praise makes her shy?
I stand, extending my hand. "Welcome aboard, Rhea."
She takes it, and this time I notice the calluses on her palm. Not the soft hands of someone who's afraid of hard work. "Thanks for taking a chance on me, boss."
"Corey," I correct her. "Save 'boss' for when I'm actually giving orders."
That gets me another blush, but this time she meets my eyes with a hint of challenge. "We'll see about that."
She tucks the forms into her bag, this worn leather thing covered in pins and patches.
I watch her walk out, those combat boots echoing against the hardwood. The door closes behind her, and I drop my head into my hands. Fuck.
This is exactly what I don't need. Some smart-mouthed, gorgeous woman with tattoos and a brain that keeps up with mine working behind my bar. The kind of woman who quotes Harry Potter and calls me out on my Slytherin tendencies within five minutes of meeting me.
The kind of woman who's going to be a fucking problem.
I grab my tablet, trying to focus back on inventory numbers, but the scent of vanilla and sandalwood lingers. Tomorrow at six. What the hell have I gotten myself into?