Chapter 2
Chapter Two
JESS
“Have you seen Tyler?” I ask, standing a respectable distance from the customer side of the bar.
Anita frowns as she side-eyes me while flipping a shaker with finesse. “I thought you were off.”
I shrug. “I am.” Though I have no idea why. I pause for a beat. “But I wanted to pick up my check.” I can’t help my envious stare at her nametag. Anita Mae, Bartender.
She nods, her smile knowing. “And call dibs on my job?”
I scrunch up my face. “Too obvious?”
“Uh, it’s called initiative. You’re a Bishop. I’d expect nothing less.” She notices the space I’ve created between me and the bar. Bartending in the great state of New York at eighteen? Totally legit. Taste-testing even one drop of alcohol? Not so much.
And as I am the last of the Bishop children to work in this establishment, let’s just say I don’t want to be the one to eff it all up with the liquor authority.
“You’re not a kid anymore, Jess. Step on up!”
Proudly, I do. With a lighter, she demonstrates a technique called flaming an orange peel. With the strike of a match and the flick of her fingers, a fireball showers the drink, then vanishes behind a small trail of smoke.
“Doesn’t that burn?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “You’re not really lighting the peel as much as spraying the orange oil against the flame into the glass.” She walks me slowly through the motions. “See?”
I nod. Rumor is, her promotion is in the bag, which leaves her job up for grabs. It’s a long shot, but I’ve been practicing. Thank God for YouTube.
She peers over thick-framed glasses. “Master this trick. People eat it up, and the tips flow like water.” She gestures grandly to the wall of liquor and art-deco accents. “This will all be yours someday.”
Fascinated, I glance around. “There’s so much to learn.”
She tosses a small notebook on the glossy wood. “Here. You want the job? Memorize this.”
Flipping through, I realize it has to be fifty pages of customized cocktails from the Adirondack Sunset to Donovan’s Deadly Twist. But when my gaze hits Bishop’s Breeze, I pause, and my eyes well up.
I expected it to be a drink created by Brian, Rex, or Cade—any one of my brothers—but it’s not. It was written by Henry.
Henry James Bishop, my father. My fingers skim across the page as I inhale pride and exhale sadness. Vodka. Lemon. Honey. Club soda with a splash of Moscato. I choke up. I can almost see him making it for mom.
Anita’s warm hand covers mine. “Anything I can do?”
Rewind time. Stop them from getting in that car.
“No,” I say softly. Not unless you can bring my parents back. It takes a breath before the pain subsides and a few blinks to dislodge an annoyingly stubborn tear.
“Lunch?” she says kindly.
I decline with a hopeful grin. “Rain check?” Considering I’m blowing all my money on my gift for Brian, I will absolutely take a free lunch IOU.
Sharp, jabbing pains erupt in the lowest point of my gut. Not now. I suck in a breath to stave it off. A hard pinch comes again, a tight twist. I hug both arms against my belly, wrestling the pain away, grateful that Anita’s too busy to notice.
“Hmm . . .” She fills a thick glass mug with whatever’s on tap. “Tyler?”
She thinks for a moment while I try not to double over in pain. Or cry out “Mercy” to the gods of pain.
Month after month, my periods are ten times worse, and over-the-counter medications are barely making a dent. With any luck, the extra-extra-strength medication I got at the drugstore will kick in any second now.
While I bite my lip like a bullet, Anita ponders on. “Tyler . . .”
Maybe it’s the repeated knife jabs to the gut talking, but if one more person says they haven’t seen Tyler Donovan, I’ll throw down like a toddler. I’m two seconds from unceremoniously face-planting onto the questionably clean floor, arms and legs flailing about in full-on meltdown mode.
Anita sets a pink-and-purple drink at the pickup station and a mug of beer next to it before sliding her glasses to the tip of her nose.
“So, you have to see Tyler?” she sings suggestively. Or hopefully. I swear, the woman is vying for the official title of Cupid.
The knife jab below the belly subsides to a dull ache enough for me to play along. “Obviously, because Tyler knows how to make a girl truly happy.”
She gives me the hairy eyeball. “You’re lucky you’re legal,” she says, smirking as she waggles her brows.
“All I need is a few minutes alone with him. Just me and Tyler so he can”—I deadpan— “pay me.” I lower my voice and clasp my hands in prayer. “And pitch him a dozen reasons for why I’d be perfect for your job.”
By her outrageous yawn, she’s underwhelmed. “Boring.” She leans in confidentially. “Moment of truth . . . which one?”
“Which one what?”
“Which one of the Donovans melts your butter?”
Which? How can she ask me that? I mean, they’re all friends with my brothers. Which makes it weird.
Wide-eyed, Anita smiles expectantly as I think it through. Anything to take my mind off the pain, though it’s eased up enough that I’m no longer tasting blood from my lower lip.
Ignoring my childhood faux pas of a wish, I run through the list.
There’s Tyler, who’s inherently sexy because he has my paycheck.
He’s the older, wiser, kinder of the Donovan brothers.
His sandy-blond waves are always as carefree as his soul, and his twenty-seven-year-old smile warms you from the inside out.
One day in the not-too-distant future, this business will be his kingdom, an attractive quality that the vagina of every eligible bachelorette in the tri-county region has zeroed in on.
Hunk-worthiness? A ten and a half. On the date-worthy scale, I can’t even go there. He’s almost paternal. Or a really hot uncle you hope will find his forever match. Whenever I come in, he’s always checking to see how I’m doing and if I’ve eaten. Thanks to this place, I have.
Then there’s Zac, the youngest and three years older than me.
A young McDreamy in his own right; his looks are totally wasted.
The man has been my BFF since forever ago, but he never dates.
Between studying at New York University and launching his own mogul career, you’d think the man was thirty-one, not twenty-one.
Over summers and holiday breaks, he returns to Saratoga Springs to shake things up.
Moving the inventory system from the caveman era into the next millennium.
Shifting the ordering to the cloud and ensuring it takes everything from Venmo to Bitcoin.
And launching a spruced-up website with candid shots that always manage to blow up Instagram, which he often credits me for.
Every chance I get, I snap outrageous photos and videos, and at Zac’s insistence, they’ve posted every single one.
Food photos. Tyler clowning around, serving a bachelorette party in nothing but a black apron.
Well, he had shorts on, but you couldn’t tell from the front.
Even simple things like Anita plopping dry ice into drinks at Halloween.
Zac says I have raw talent. I call it an obsession with Mrs. D.’s food.
Zac will forever be my biggest cheerleader and best friend, but something more?
Let’s just say our one and only test-the-waters kiss was all we needed to be eternally friend-zoned.
Plus, I’m not sure he’ll ever settle down.
Core-of-the-Earth-level hotness? A thousand percent.
A compulsive workaholic? Ten-thousand percent.
And last, but not least, there’s Mark. The very same Marcus Evan Donavon my child mind thought I could marry. Silly girl. I couldn’t possibly marry an ass, and make no mistake, that man is an ass.
As if reading my thoughts, Anita asks, “Ooh, is it Mark?”
Heat flares up my neck to my cheeks as I scoff. “Mark? Mark hates me.”
“He does not.”
“He even gave me that stupid nickname.”
Anita coos at me. “It’s adorable.”
My palm is affronted before I am, and it flies in her face. “Don’t even.”
Her hands raise in surrender as she smartly backs up a step. “Okay, okay. Just saying, he’s not terrible on the eyes.”
When Anita gets googly-eyed for Mark, I gag. She grabs a ticket and pulls a highball from the shelf to work on her next drink.
All I can think is…Mark? Really?
I mean, to look at, yes. Agreed. If Mark had a mute button, he’d be the perfect man. The problem with him—or rather, the biggest problem with him—is that his looks far overshadow his tiny, little pea-brain. That and his two-sizes too-small heart.
Have you ever seen a man too beautiful to exist? Sure, in and of itself, it’s not a reason to hate him. What I hate is that Mark wields it like a weapon. Whenever he walks into a room, I feel the need to dispense chastity belts with reckless abandon.
Again, I’m not talking about your garden-variety good looks, as in he looks great in a pair of jeans with an insta-swoon dimple that could launch a thousand ships.
I’m talking about a legs-locked, knees-weak, heart-stopping level of sex appeal that would stand out in a sea of Hemsworths.
The irony is that with all that heat, Mark is too cold.
Anita pops the cork on a bottle of Moscato and works on a Bellini. “Well, if your heart’s set on Tyler or Zac, you’re SOL. I just remembered that Tyler isn’t here. He and Zac went fishing with their dad before Zac returns to school.”
I nibble my lower lip again, worry twisting my gut.
“Nope. Don’t do that,” Anita says, frowning.
“Huh? Do what?”
She waves an accusatory strawberry-margarita painted fingernail in my face. “That thing where your brows pinch so hard, they nearly touch. Trust me, you’re too young to start with the permanent angry line.” She wipes down the bar. “You worried about Brian leaving?”
“No,” I lie, lifting a defiant chin. “Brian has been here long enough. Having him take care of me since my parents—”
My mouth dries, sand filling my throat before I can say the words. I breathe through it until words come out.