by Dani McLean
Fucking hell, body.
GET A GRIP.
17
Tiff
Sam was doing this on purpose.
He was practically making it his job to get under my skin. And more annoyingly, it was working.
Sam was behind the bar again tonight, doing his best to bother me. Our stations were beside each other, which served as a constant distraction. Every inch between us. Every brush of skin or clothing as we worked. If he reached over to pick something up, I would zero in on his hands, watching his dexterous fingers as he stirred a bar spoon.
There was little relief when he turned to the back bar, especially if he was getting any of the top-shelf stuff because then I would be met by his broad shoulders, the implication of taut back muscles burning themselves into my brain.
It was like a dam had burst, and I was being flooded by all things Sam. A pillowy lip. That damn lopsided smile. His melodic voice as he greeted customers. How confidently he could switch between charm and authority, dealing with difficult customers or unforeseen problems with calm. How a soft command from him made my thighs clench.
Sometimes, I caught him watching me. Observing. Our eyes met, tangled, and he’d look away. Sometimes the light would add a flush to his skin, and I’d feel my own cheeks heating in response.
Of course, Sam was (as always) very careful to maintain distance. Always stepping out of my way like he was afraid to touch me. If he knew me at all, he would have realized that was the worst possible choice. Because it only made me want to reach out to him more.
While I took an order for three French martini’s, Sam sidled in beside me to serve another customer. A quick flick of my gaze told me that she was gorgeous. And clearly giving him the eye.
I hated her. For completely unselfish, non-jealous reasons.
Because this was Sam. Annoying, calculating, surprisingly toned, cynically funny, with dimples I wanted to lick, Sam.
“What do you recommend?” I overheard her ask him, and I waited to see his reaction. It wasn’t an extremely busy night, so we had the time to mix up something special, but typically this question was a sort of make or break for a bartender. Any time we spent trying to guess what you wanted was time we lost making tips.
It was usually a death knell.
So, of course, Sam responded with a winning smile and genuinely tried to help her decide on something, recommending a few things off the menu and explaining their flavors to her while she stared dreamily at him.
What a bitch.
I couldn’t recognize the cocktail from the ingredients he pulled out, which meant he was making something of his own creation. Knock me over. Was there anything he couldn’t do?
Reaching for the Chambord, only to grab air, I cursed when I spotted it on the other side of him.
Over my shoulder, I asked, “Can you pass me the—”
Without missing a beat, he reached over and placed the bottle in my waiting hand. I paused, blinking at it. “Oh. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” He continued working.
Shaking the martini, I had to ask. “Where did you learn to bartend? I thought you just ran places?”
“I have a long and varied career.”
Neither of us had bothered to look at each other, focusing instead on our drinks, but at this, I had to turn. “Oh, come on. Give me something.”
Something odd happened to his mouth that I couldn’t discern (I was tempted to imagine he was annoyed with me because it was an expression I’d grown used to seeing on him), but he still answered my question. “When I was seventeen, I tended bar for a local place. Completely kitsch, screens everywhere, lots of jerseys on the wall.”
“Sounds like the kind of place my dad loves.”
“It was a great place. The decor was horrible, but it was busy every night. For years, I wondered why, considering how run down it was. The drinks weren’t that good, the food was even worse. But the locals still loved it.”
I could picture it exactly. I’d worked in my fair share of those places. “It was home.”
He nodded. “Yes.”
When the martinis were done, I took the card payment, surprised when Sam turned to the woman I’d served. “Enjoy your night. I take it Tiffany treated you well?”
She practically beamed at him. Charming bastard. “Yes. Very well.”
He chuckled. Fucking. Chuckled. “Good. She can stay employed for another week then.”
Oh, very funny, asshole.
His voice was low when he turned to twist the knife. “Wasn’t that nice? People can be lovely.”
Smug bastard. “I hate you.”
The corner of his mouth lifted. “Now, Tiffany, why would you say something like that?”
It turned out it was very hard to scowl while fake smiling. But I still managed it.
The next day, I found myself unpacking a box of Elderflower liqueur, eyeing the bottles, and enjoying the quiet of the storeroom before opening. Such a pretty color, even under this horrendous fluorescent lighting. Glassy and not-quite-gray. More like sea glass, maybe, with a barely-there blue/green tone that reminded me how long it had been since I’d visited the museum with Hannah.
It was beautiful.
There was something familiar about it that I didn’t realize until I was back upstairs and saw Sam passing by the bar.
Surely I had noticed before this, but damn. Those eyes.
They were ethereal sea foam.
Clear like shallow water, but endless as a deep well.
Fuck. I definitely shouldn’t be waxing poetic over Sam fucking Cooper’s eyes. No matter how haunting they were.
But they were. Haunting. Always standing out against the dark brown of his hair and beard.
Except, the beard was gone. I shifted to take another look at him, disguising my movements by pretending to rearrange bottles on the back bar. He was clean-shaven. Gone was the soft fuzz that had been keeping the lower half of his face covered (I’d say warm, but considering how threadbare it was, it wouldn’t have been doing much in that department).
But not all of it had gone. No. He’d kept this silly little mustache. And it was anything but silly because, for some annoying fucking reason, it actually made him more attractive. Brought the focus to his prominent cupid's bow and the little beauty mark on his right cheek and the crooked way he smiled and no, no no no no.
I could not, would not, absolutely fucking refused to acknowledge the fact that he was good-looking. Even objectively.
While I was immediately thankful when the mustache disappeared a day later (had he kept it on a dare? Why did nothing he did make any sense?), the smile was still all I could see. Blinding me when I least expected it until I had to turn away.
It was frustration, was all. The fact that this … show, this act, wasn’t the real him.
Because with me, it disappeared. His face was like stone when we talked (ok, argued), but I’d see him with other people, his face loose and open, smiling like he knew exactly the reaction it caused and acting like he was perfectly friendly.
But with me, he shut down.
The change wasn’t lost on me. And I was caught between anger and disappointment.
We almost got along. Almost. It would probably help if I wasn’t snipping at him or giving in to the urge to snark back all the time. But he made it so easy. He set himself up for those fights, with his “Tiffany” in that husky, reprimanding tone and his constant dismissal of my ideas and his fucking refusal to smile around me.
I’d arrived early again today because Sam wanted to talk more about these changes he wanted to make. The office was open when I arrived, so I made myself comfortable in one of the chairs, a takeaway black coffee cooling in my hands.
“I’m going to change the name,” Sam said as he swept into the office.
I sat up straight, surprised. “Wait. Really?”
“You have to admit. It doesn’t make much sense. The Basement? We’re on the ground floor.”
“It
is pretty ridiculous.”
He blinked at me for a moment until I started to think his brain had stalled and gone offline. “What?”
“No, I’m just … Did you just agree with me about something?”
I rolled my eyes. “Don’t get used to it. I still hate you.”
“Noted.” But there was a crease in the corner of his eye that I decided to absolutely not make anything out of.
“What are you going to change it to?”
“I haven’t decided yet.”
“‘Cooper’s Place’ too ostentatious?”
His lips flatlined. There, that was more familiar. “I suppose you would prefer ‘Tiffany’s’?”
“I would, but I’m pretty sure that name’s taken.”
He said nothing. It was obvious he’d lied about not having a name in mind, but he didn’t want to tell me. It angered me. I thought we’d worked past this, but clearly not.
“If there’s nothing else, boss, I’ve got actual work to do.” Slamming the door on my way out wasn’t nearly as satisfying as I’d hoped it would be.
One step forward, ten steps back.
18
Sam
“Of course,” the older man shook my hand, “we love Tiff and The Basement. We’d be happy to support you guys.”
“Thank you. I appreciate that,” I returned the handshake. “I’ll come back tomorrow with the paperwork drawn up. We can make things official.”
“Good to be doing business with you. ‘Bout time the community started supporting each other.”
Walking the few feet back to the bar, I tried not to feel disheartened. I’d spent the day canvassing every to-go food place in a two-block radius of the bar. The proposal was this: I’d stock their menus if they agreed to deliver to the bar. It was a win-win: people who ate drank more, and vice versa. The Basement didn’t offer food, but we did have to compete with restaurants nearby, and this would allow us to cater to a wider customer base.
The problem was, none of the businesses I’d spoken to wanted to do it. Until now. I’d hoped for more, but I’d take it. It was a start.
Tiffany, of course, hated the idea. “This is meant to be a serious bar, not a fucking backpackers serving nachos and beer.”
I eyed her over the rim of my glasses before returning to my notes. I wanted to prepare the contract today so that I could take it to my lawyer in the morning. “It’s good business.”
She made a scoffing noise. “We should do something with the ceiling,” she said, with seemingly no segue.
With her attention on the ceiling, I stole glances of her across the booth, a habit of mine lately. A knit jumper hung asymmetrical across her chest, exposing one shoulder and most of her collarbone. Shadows dipped into the hollow of her throat. My fingers itched to reach out.
She was sporting a fresh shave, and I idly rubbed at my jaw, wondering how her hair might feel against my skin. How Tiffany might react.
Surreptitiously, I re-adjusted my posture, hoping to relieve the pressure against my dick. “I will be. Now that everything is removed, it will be repainted, and the lights will be replaced with pendants.”
The redesign of the back bar was already costing enough since it had to be custom-made pre-installation. Blessedly, the contractor I’d decided on had promised he would handle the city approval for the structural changes. Adding any further alterations to the bar was beyond my current budget.
“Or,” and I already disliked where this was headed, “we could keep the downlights and instead commission a mural. How old is this building anyway? We could make it subtle, too, like a trick of the light, where it looks like vintage molding.”
There it was again. We. A single word that concocted images of the two of us together.
“Thank you for the suggestion, but considering I am the only one who has successfully launched a bar before, I’ll stick to my original plan.” In my head, it had been meant as a friendly jibe. Dry. Sarcastic. Unfortunately, my ability to regulate my composure around Tiffany screwed with all normal human functions, so I sounded angry and pedantic.
“Sorry,” she said, in a tone that was far from it. “I thought you’d asked me to help. But if you want to make terrible decisions, go ahead.” Her stare was intense, lighting my blood on fire.
There was no escaping my growing attraction to her, which worried me. I was here to focus. To get my life back on track. Not sidetrack myself with impetuous decisions.
I had to end this conversation. If she had any idea of my completely unprofessional feelings, she’d probably punch me. And I’d deserve it.
“Is there anything you think that you don’t say? Sometimes, you could choose to keep your opinions to yourself.”
“Excuse me, did you lose your mind? I was only making a suggestion about the ceiling.”
“An unsolicited one.”
“Oh, so I guess you don’t need my help anymore? Or am I just forgetting the whole ‘Tiffany, I need you’ conversation we had last week?”
I flushed. If you only knew. “I most certainly never said I needed you.”
She threw her hands up. “Oh, my God, I don’t know why you ever thought we could work together on this. You ask for my help but don’t ever want to hear any of my suggestions.”
“I hear them. And if they were any good, I’d consider them.”
She groaned. “You’re impossible!”
“You’re quick-tempered and judgmental.”
She pushed angrily out of the booth, storming off towards the staff room. “And you’re self-important and uptight.”
After she’d left, I slumped back in my chair and let the anger go with a long exhale. Instead of any kind of relief, I felt guilt and regret.
The right thing to do would be to apologize. And I wanted to, but Tiffany could likely use some time to cool off, so I focused instead on reviewing the liquor contracts that were up for renewal.
Except, I found myself reading the same paragraph a few times over before understanding that I wasn’t getting anywhere. If only she didn’t push my buttons so effortlessly, I wouldn’t be in this position. If she understood the stakes, would she back off?
Tiffany might be able to treat the consequences flippantly, but I couldn’t. This meant too much to me. If it didn’t work out, she could get another job, but what would I be left with? A ruined reputation and a lifetime of guilt for choosing work over everything else.
No. I had to make this work.
Being around Tiffany made me feel alive. Wildly present. Daring. The exact opposite of what I needed to be to save my career.
My shoulder twinged painfully a few hours later as I was lifting a box onto a shelf before opening.
The box lurched in my hands, but I regained my hold and pushed through the pain to put it on the shelf. Tiffany unfortunately noticed. “You ok?”
“Yes.” It was the curtest I’d been with her, even when we’d been fighting.
She immediately backed off, a hurt look in her eyes.
I felt awful, but I didn’t want to explain why it happened.
“I have to finalize next week’s schedule,” I lied.
“Ok.”
I turned and walked back to my office so that I didn’t have to see her expression, but the sad turn of her gaze was already burned into my mind.
The last thing I heard before closing the office door was Tiffany asking Devon to finish unpacking the boxes I’d left behind.
Damn. I hated letting the pain get to me. It honestly wasn’t even that bad, a dull ache that I’d grown accustomed to.
Pride was the problem.
I needed a distraction. From my shoulder, from Tiffany. From the bar.
Harry picked up just as I was preparing to leave a voicemail. “Sorry! Gracie hasn’t eaten in four hours, and Imogen is beside herself.” He sounded harried, and I couldn’t blame him.
“Do you want me to call back later?”
“No. She’s just gone down for a nap, and we’re going to try a bottle
soon. How are you?”
“Fine.” Liar.
“How are you really?”
“Awful. I have half a mind to give up and retire to the countryside.”
He barked out a laugh. “You’d hate it before the first day was over.”
“True. But at least I wouldn’t have to spend another minute thinking about the benefits of matte vs. low sheen paint.”
“Riveting.” He chuckled.
“Come to think of it; I have a question for you that’s been bothering me all week. Is there a reason you would want to keep the inane rubbish that’s decorating the ceiling?”
“What?” He asked, then burst out laughing. “Oh, damn, I’d forgotten,” more laughter, “about that.”
When he finally collected himself, he explained. “I may have told a little white lie. I’d originally put it up on a whim, saw how ridiculous it looked, and went to take it down, but a certain headstrong bartender—”
“How did I know she was going to feature in this?”
“I don’t know, dear brother, but you do seem rather attached to her.”
“Finish the story.”
“Anyway, she told me she was going to take it down and redecorate, so I may have told her that it had sentimental value.” I waited for the other shoe to drop. “She might be under the impression that it was mom and dad’s old things.”
“Harry!”
He only responded by laughing. He really was a shit under that unassuming exterior. “I know I shouldn’t have. They would turn in their graves if they knew, but it didn’t hurt anyone, and as much of an eyesore as it is, I liked having one part of the place be mine.”
I could relate, but it still surprised me. “Damn, Harry. You know she’ll kill you if she ever finds out.”
“Aww. Is that concern for her or me?”
“No comment.” But I couldn’t hold out, it seemed. I needed someone to talk about this with. “I know you warned me that she was unrelenting, but I never expected her to get under my skin so badly. I can’t decide if I want to scream or …” I couldn’t finish that sentence.
