4. Walt
WALT
Ishuffle the stack of papers on my desk for what seems like the tenth time as I check the clock.
Fifteen fucking minutes to calm myself down before he gets here.
I was not this nervous about the bartender I had originally hired. He was a man. He was about Johnny’s age. He knew how to pour a goddamn beer.
But he didn’t smile at me the way Johnny did. He didn’t laugh at the first thing he saw me do, then continue to give me shit about it until the bar closed. He didn’t stay helping me on a day I needed it most.
Fuck, Walter. Get your shit together.
He is now your employee. Which means he is now an even bigger risk than before. I drop my head in my hands. This is a terrible idea.
Maybe I should tell him my original bartender is coming back.
I smack my hand on my forehead at the thought.
If I do that, I still won’t have a bartender, and I can’t pour a drink worth shit.
Not to mention he just lost his job. I can’t in good conscience leave a man without work out on the streets.
That would be flat-out bad manners. But, once again, it’s another day at my bar, and I’m questioning what the hell I’ve gotten myself into.
Before I can run out the back and hide from the world in the alley, I hear a knock on the door. My gaze darts to the clock.
8:47am.
He’s early. My heart is beating in my goddamn throat. Yesterday my bartender was late, then a no-show, and now come-from-nowhere-Johnny is here fucking early, and I don’t know which one has me more flustered.
“Morning!” Johnny says as he pops in like he’s been here a thousand times.
“Thanks for showing up,” I joke back.
“I don’t know who the other joker you hired is, but Johnny Hudson is a man of his word.”
The sound of his full name hits me. It settles deep in my gut, poking and prodding at something I’ve spent years keeping buried. “Well, Johnny Hudson, let’s get some paperwork filled out and get this place ready to open.”
“What made you buy this bar anyway?”
“That’s what I keep asking myself.” I let out a loud sigh as we slice limes and lemons, ensure all the bottles are ready to go, and stock up on napkins.
“My grandpa owned a bar growing up. It wasn’t far from here, about a mile or so away over on Wisconsin Avenue.
He used to let me hang out there in the summers when I was a kid.
Looking back, it wasn’t the greatest environment for a kid, but it was damn fun.
He’d sometimes let me take the customer’s orders or help him make change, things like that, then I’d help him clean up at the end of the day.
” My face falls, the familiar pang in my chest pounding once more.
“But he and my dad…they had a falling out and stopped talking. Which means I stopped getting to see him.” I pause, unsure why I’m spilling my guts to a near stranger.
A man who is now my employee. A man who, for some reason unbeknownst to me, feels like he belongs here.
I go stiff as he reaches around me, our eyes catching before he grabs another lime.
“I’m sorry about that,” he says softly. “Must have been hard for you as a kid.”
I swallow hard, letting out a breath as we both go back to the task at hand.
“It was. My grandpa was fun. And shit…did he love that bar. He always said he wanted it to be a place where people could feel at home. A place where they could feel like they had a good family even if they didn’t have one by blood.
And a place where people felt safe to be themselves—to let their fears and worries fade away with a few sips of a drink. ”
I look around the space—my bar—warmth brushing across my chest, knowing this is exactly what I want this place to be for everyone who walks in that door.
“That bar still in your family?”
I shake my head. “When my grandpa died, my dad wanted the money. Bastard sold it to some developer who demolished it and turned it into one of those strip malls. That was years ago, but…it still hurts. I’d give anything to have taken over that bar.”
My jaw clenches, the memories of that place and wanting to strangle my dad for ever selling it threatening to pull me under.
Johnny remains silent, his knife skillfully creating the garnishes we’ll need for the day.
His presence steadies me, giving me enough breathing room to push the memories back and focus on slicing fruit.
“A while back, a lawyer reached out saying my granddad had left me some money in a trust no one knew about. And when I saw this place for sale, well…something spoke to me, and I had to buy it. Signed the papers, added my name to the sign, and boom! Here we are.”
Johnny’s eyebrow lifts. “What was this place called before?”
“Frank’s on Water.”
He snorts. “Original. I like it. Sad to hear about that other bar bein’ torn down. It sounds like it was a great place. Everyone needs a home away from home. You know”—he turns to face me—“I think Walt’s on Water could be a place like that.”
I try to hide the smile creeping up, but it’s no use. The words fill my chest with a warmth I haven’t felt in a long time. Probably since the last summer I spent in Gramp’s bar.
“I think so too.”
“Well then,” he throws the towel over his shoulder. “We’re all prepped for the day except for one last thing.”
“What’s that?”
“You’ve got to learn how to pour a proper beer.”
I shake my head with a smirk. “Isn’t that what I’m paying you to do?”
He glares at me, and fuck, if it doesn’t dart right through my chest.
“Yes. But as the owner of a bar, you should know how to pour a beer correctly. And if we get slammed, it’ll help if you can handle the drafts and leave me to the cocktails.”
Shit. The blood drains from my face. He’s right.
“Okay, show me. How hard can it be to pour a beer?”