Chapter Eight
Brew
T here’s a rhythm to bartending, not just created by the sound of ice hitting the sides of a cocktail shaker or rattling in a glass—a pulse, a tempo. It’s like a heartbeat that syncs with the crowd—steady, fast, and exciting.
I used to love it long before I owned Whiskey Joe’s, before there were quarterly reports, staffing headaches, and health inspections—back when it was just my part-time gig to make some pocket money.
It’s been years since I last worked a shift.
But here I am, behind the bar. Shaker in one hand, towel tossed over my shoulder like muscle memory.
Audrey called this afternoon just to check in. She was all business, reminding me to come in early to cut the payroll checks. As if the email and nifty neon-pink Post-it Note weren’t reminders enough.
And of course, tonight of all nights, Cody Banks and his band are playing. They’re an Atlanta band turned regional phenomenon, and they always draw a crowd.
We’re at capacity. The place is packed from the edge of the dance floor to the back wall, every table full, the bar lined three deep. Glasses clinking. People singing along. The air hums with music and too many bodies crammed into one place.
I haven’t sweat this much in a long time.
“You sure you remember how to do this, old man?” Leonard teases as he slips past me to grab a bottle out of the cooler.
I shoot him a look and slide two whiskeys, neat, across the bar without missing a beat. “Like riding a bike.”
“Can you pedal a bit faster?” Heather, one of our waitresses, asks as she drops off a tray of empty bottles, laughing as she disappears back into the crowd.
It takes me a few more orders to find my rhythm, but once I do, I handle my end of the bar like a pro.
I catch my breath between orders, just long enough to wipe down the bar and take a quick look at the crowd enjoying themselves before returning my focus to the chaos.
A woman is waving a twenty-dollar bill at me, someone is shouting for more limes, and a guy in a cowboy hat is trying to balance six beers in his hands.
Cody has the entire room swaying, halfway through a cover of “She’ll Leave You with a Smile,” and, damn, he makes it sound like it was written for him.
A blonde leans in at the end of the bar, hair like spun gold, wearing a dress that doesn’t belong to this season. She taps her manicured nails against her empty glass.
“Whiskey sour,” she calls, smiling.
I make the drink quickly and walk it to her. She watches me the whole time like she’s memorizing something about me.
“You Brewster Cartwright?” she asks when I set the glass down.
“Last time I checked.”
“I heard this was your place.” Her eyes skim over the bar, the bottles, then back to me. “But I’ve never seen you behind the bar before.”
I grin, but it’s the kind that doesn’t reach my eyes. “I guess there’s a first time for everything. Let me know if you need anything else.”
I move on before she can reply.
That’s the third time tonight. No, fourth. I lost count after the girl with the sequinned halter top slipped me her phone number and asked me to call her later.
The rumors about my family float through the tourists—rich, private, probably a part of the mob if you ask the wrong people. I’ve never denied it, but I sure as hell don’t parade my wealth around either.
Another round of orders from Heather hits the POS system. I pour four hard ciders into frosty mugs, crack open three Blue Moons, and pop a new keg on tap five. My shoulders ache in a way they haven’t in forever.
“Brew,” comes from a soft voice to my left.
I turn, already half guessing what I’ll find. And I’m not wrong. She’s pretty—big eyes, bright smile, crop top that’s hanging on for dear life. Young—too young. And she leans in like we’re about to share a secret.
“I just wanted to say this place is awesome. I come here all the time.”
“Glad to hear it,” I say, grabbing a rag to wipe the wet spot near her elbow.
“My friends and I were wondering …” She trails off, then bites her lip. “Are you, like … single?”
Here it comes.
“I am,” I say, kind but firm. “But I’m also working. Can I get you something to drink?”
She blinks, then recovers with a laugh. “I’ll take a vodka soda with a lime, please.”
I make it and move on. I’m not rude—I never am. But I’ve had a lifetime of practice at deflecting without opening the door too wide. I’ve learned the difference between genuine curiosity and opportunistic charm. It’s not that I don’t want a connection; I just want it to be real.
And this? This isn’t real. That’s something I’ll never get here in Sandcastle Cove. It’s all flirt and opportunity.
At the center of the bar, one of the regulars, George, waves me down for another IPA. He is in his late sixties, has a beard down to his chest, and knows more about fishing than I ever will.
“You still remember how to pull a proper pint?” He grins.
“Better than I remember how to do my taxes,” I say, handing him the beer. “Where’s Greta tonight?”
“Home. She says she can’t hear herself think when a band is playing.” He sips his beer. “You holding up?”
“Barely.”
He chuckles. “Bet you’ll sleep good tonight.”
I smile, but I don’t stop moving.
The pace picks up again—drinks, tabs, more drinks. The line never ends. At some point, I lose track of time. I’m just motion and rhythm. A machine powered by the music.
The band transitions into their final set, and the crowd shifts like a tide. Some people drift toward the patio, others toward the restrooms, and a fresh wave of bodies hits the bar.
Heather returns with a tray and wide eyes. “Some lady in stilettos just tried to tip me with a diamond bracelet.”
“Did you take it?”
“No, but I should have. She and her friends have been a pain in my ass all night.”
We laugh, and I feel the weight in my chest lighten just a little.
Then she asks, “You sure you’re okay, boss?”
I wipe my hands on a towel and nod. “Yeah. Just been a long time since I’ve done this.”
She raises a brow. “Been hit on by every trust-fund-seeking gold digger within fifty miles?”
“Exactly,” I say dryly. “Also worked up an honest-to-God sweat. No spreadsheets or vendor calls. Just drinks and music and new faces.”
She looks at me for a second longer, then says, “Well, if you want to trade places, I’m happy to go lounge in your office while you break up that drunk couple dry-humping out on the patio.”
“Tempting.” I smirk before flagging down one of the bouncers and sending him to the patio.
Another hour. More smiling faces. A hundred more drinks. The band plays their final song—a slow, smoky version of an original—and the crowd finally starts to thin out. I can breathe again. My shirt is damp at the collar, and my forearms are sore from lifting bottles.
The blonde from earlier is gone. So is the tank-top girl. What’s left are the locals, the night owls, the regulars. They don’t care who I am or what I own. They just want their drinks made to their liking.
Leonard starts cleaning up glasses and restocking the mixers, and I join him.
When the last customer leaves, it’s close to one forty-five a.m. The lights blink on. The hum of the coolers replaces the music. The place feels like it’s finally exhaling.
I sit on a stool behind the bar and stretch my shoulders. My hands are raw from citrus and sanitizer. My voice is hoarse. My feet might never forgive me.
And I get to do it all again tomorrow night.
Heather finishes stacking the last tray and turns to me. “You’ve still got it, boss man. I’m impressed.”
“I’m not dead yet.”
She smirks, then tosses me a beer. I crack it open and take a long drink.
“Just wait until the end of the weekend and see if you can say that.”
I lean back against the bar, watching the quiet room like I’m seeing it for the first time.
We all pitch in to clean and restock. I empty the tip jars and divvy up the spoils while the servers clean the tables and the floor.
Once we’re done, they head out, and I lock up behind them.
Alone now, I flip off the remaining lights. The stage is empty. The chairs are up. The scent of the night still lingers—citrus and beer and old wood.
I stand behind the bar for a moment longer. My bar.
I built this place for nights like tonight—even if I forgot how much I loved them.
And, yeah, the flirtation, the fake smiles, the not-so-subtle hints—they come with the territory. But so does this: the last song echoing in my ears long after the crowd is gone.
I finish my beer and fling the bottle into the trash. I walk out into the cool night air, carrying the last two trash bags to toss into the dumpster. The street is quiet. The stars are out. My body aches.
And it feels damn good.