by Dani McLean
As I considered it, I admired Tiffany across the table. Strong, sparkling, kinetic. She lived her life boldly, in a way I’d always tried to attain but now realized was possibly out of my reach.
I’d wanted to tell her I felt the same. Because I knew, without a doubt, that I loved her. Was in love with her.
It was hard to be aware of anything else. Which worried me. Because here I was, repeating history, right back to where I was with Piper. Making the same catastrophic decisions that led me back to Chicago. Where I’d promised myself I would play it safe. That I wouldn’t risk the bar’s success. For anything.
A booming knock on the door of the bar surprised us both. Either someone wasn’t aware that we weren’t open today, or they knew and, what? Hoped someone was here?
The mystery lasted all of ten seconds when my cell phone rang, showing Jordan’s name and number. He didn’t waste time when I answered. “It’s freezing! Are you going to open the door or leave me on the sidewalk all night?”
The call ended as I moved to let him in, and once I’d opened the door, I was immediately overcome by Jordan’s strong hug. “Finally!”
I patted his back. “It’s not even that cold. You could have easily lasted another hour out there.” It had only been a year since we’d last seen each other, briefly catching each other between work commitments. He looked good if a little stressed. He was as sharply dressed as I’d ever seen him in light gray dress pants and a matching vest, the rolled-up sleeves of his pressed white shirt pulling the salt out of his beard, dashing against his dark skin.
“I’m a delicate man, Sam. Years under the harsh Nevada sun have changed me. I don’t know how you do it.”
“I’m cold-blooded,” I responded dryly, enjoying his hearty laugh.
Jordan entered, and a flicker of nerves spiked in me as he surveyed the room. He didn’t have to love it, but I’d always respected his opinion and knew that he’d give it to me honestly. “Not bad. The ceiling is a little bare. Probably would have been better with some molding or an accent color.”
“That’s what I said.” Tiffany walked over with her hand out. “Hi, I’m Tiff.”
“And I’m impressed.” Jordan shook her hand, and I did my best to blink away a flare of jealousy. “Jordan. Lovely to meet you, Tiff.”
“And you. I’m a big fan of your twist on the Manhattan.”
“Thank you. I’ve heard you have a take on the Sazerac that I must try.”
Her cheeks pinked, and a sharp pain in my hand caused me to release my fist before I broke the skin with my nail.
“It’s nothing much, but I’d be happy to make you one if you’d like?”
“Wonderful.” Tiffany started towards the bar to start on the drinks. Jordan hung back for a moment, keeping his voice low. “So that’s the infamous Tiff?”
I shook my head—not now—and we each took a seat at the bar.
Tiffany quickly fixed up three cocktails, moving smoothly behind the bar, and I took the opportunity to watch her work. She didn’t miss a beat, able to continue a conversation with Jordan as she measured by sight, free pouring, and acting on instinct. She was mesmerizing.
If I hadn’t let our professional relationship become muddled by my selfish desires, I would have been safe without the knowledge of how far her light went and all the ways she made me feel again.
If I hadn’t been so distracted by my feelings for her, maybe the whole mess with Pierce would have gone differently. But I’d never know now.
If I weren’t so selfish, I would put a stop to this. But it was hard to let go. I felt trapped between backing away from us and stepping closer, the pull to let myself have this insistent and undeniable. Reaching for her as she passed me, noticing her in any room, wanting to preempt her needs and be the one to provide them.
Tiffany poured the cocktail out into three glasses. “You know, this was the first drink I ever learned to mix.”
“Really? That’s not what I expected.” Jordan reached for his glass, sniffing and examining the liquid with a keen eye.
“I know. It didn’t make sense to anyone in college either. But my uncle is a huge whiskey nut, and I thought it made me cooler to serve cocktails no one had heard of.” She chuckled.
“Did it?” He took a sip, not hiding his enjoyment, which I could tell was genuine. It filled me with pride.
Tiffany leaned against the bar, confident, enjoying her creation. “Hell no. I liked it, but everyone else just wanted Jägerbombs.”
“This is good. Well worth the praise,” he said, and Tiff nodded her thanks as he had a second taste. “Well, I would have thought you were cool. In my day, the closest I got to mixing a drink was having rum and coke.”
Tiffany smiled. “It’s a classic for a reason.”
“True, but by the end of the night, we’d be drinking rum and whatever was left. And trust me, we were all lucky that we couldn’t taste anything at the end of the night because they were not my best inventions.”
I laughed, recalling my own horror stories of house parties and disgusting concoctions, only occasionally being surprised that two elements I’d never have otherwise paired went well together.
Huh … That wasn’t a horrible idea.
* * *
“Uh oh.” Jordan turned to me. “Sam’s got his thinking face on.”
I turned it over in my mind. Actually, if done right, it could work. “That experience is rather universal, don’t you think? Drinks made up of odd combinations of leftovers. I was wondering if there was something in that.”
His eyes narrowed, not yet convinced, but I could see he was intrigued. “Keep talking.”
“There’s an accessibility there, not to mention the nostalgia, and if kept to the standard ‘booze plus mixer’ combination, anyone you hired could make it.” I felt my mind running a few steps ahead of me, lost in planning.
“Step back. What exactly are you saying?”
“I’m not exactly sure yet, but either some sort of dual selection gimmick,”
Jordan was nodding, “Pick your booze, now spin for a random mixer …”
“Something like that.” I looked over to Tiffany to find her watching our conversation with amusement.
“Not that I want to disagree,” she started, snorting a laugh when I added, “That would be a first.” Picking up a fresh 18-28 shaker, she began a fresh cocktail. “But, I think I have a way to take that and make it better. There are too many variables for random selection to work, but what if you took the foundation of that—the different combinations—but anchored it in a style? Like a sour. Then, you could still use different infused bases and mix and match them with a range of juices.”
Before us, apple brandy, egg white, lemon juice, and a colored lavender simple syrup come together with ease, and it was hard to tell if she’d made it a hundred times or if this is the first. “Dry shake, single strain, with or without ice …” The actions followed her words.
Finally, a single sprig of lavender garnished the coupe. “It would take seconds to pump out and give you a pretty solid lineup to keep year-round, plus room for changing things up if you wanted to.” She slid the glass towards me, and I appraised both it and its beautiful creator. Tiffany’s cheeks brightened with a small blush. “And sours are pretty classic, right—spirit, sugar, citrus—but not revolutionary either. This would be just different enough not to be boring, but also accessible enough to not be designer.”
The drink tasted incredible, but that wasn’t surprising. What floored me was the way Tiffany so effortlessly transformed the seed of an idea into something brilliant and marketable. Like a perfect combination of both of us.
On my left, Jordan looked pleased. Too pleased. He had that glint in his eyes that only meant trouble. “You two make a good team.”
“We sure do,” Tiffany added, the soft glimmer in her eyes causing my entire body to melt.
And that’s when I knew.
No matter how much time passed, I would always have a wea
k spot for Tiffany. And that terrified me.
41
Sam
Today was the day the article would go live, Diego had warned me. And sure enough, when I fired up the site over my second espresso, there it was, my face and words shining back at me.
Diego hadn’t twisted my words out of context and had even added some of his own thoughts to support my points. There was no question that Pierce would be pissed, but I had officially run out of patience with that blowhole, so he could think what he liked.
When I’d said the same thing to Jordan last night, he’d been supportive, if cautious (“I hope you know what you’re doing.”), and while I appreciated his concern, finally being able to defend my position was somewhat freeing. No risk, no reward, right?
It wasn’t a tactic I’d engaged often, but how often had public statements been used as a veiled middle finger in business? It was practically the status quo. Besides, what was the worst that could happen? Pierce wasn’t named, so he couldn’t claim libel.
Making a public comment would only serve to identify himself as part of the problem I was speaking about, and he was hardly going to do that.
A text message arrived from Tiffany. “Bold choice.” An image followed, a screenshot of the article, and she’d circled one particular section:
“What statement are you trying to make here?”
“I want to speak against the gatekeeping and misogyny that I’ve seen, and while I agree that this town has proven itself a bastion of innovation, change moves in many different directions, and as he sees it, inclusion is key. There’s a place for the over-designed wine bars of the world, just as there’s a place for the local club or tavern. Each offers an experience.”
“What experience are you offering?”
“In a word? Acceptance. Sick of feeling out of place at a wanky establishment? Nervous to order a cocktail because there are twelve ingredients you don’t know in it? My mission is to offer somewhere you want to be and enjoy being. Good drinks, mixed by professionals, and an atmosphere that no matter your preference or poison, you’re welcome.”
The rest of the morning, I waited for a sign that Pierce had seen the article and, hopefully, understood my message. In truth, I knew that as a businessman, and a proud one at that, any grudge he was going to hold against me would be harbored in private and expressed through thinly veiled barbs to my face—not unlike how he’d treated Tiffany at the dinner those weeks ago.
Even so, I could picture his scowl in my mind, and I was happy enough for now that he would know without a doubt I was referring to him. His absurd play at interference with the contractor still pissed me off, but at least now he knew I wasn’t going to fall in line behind him. If he needed someone to kiss his feet, he was going to have to look elsewhere.
It took two hours before he called.
“It seems you have something to say to me,” he said, ignoring any form of hello.
“Nothing that hasn’t already been said by my staff or me.”
“I’m not sure what you hoped to get out of this, but I would have hoped that you were smart enough to talk to me in private before making a statement like this. Instead, I received a call two days ago from a friend at the paper, telling me to prepare myself.”
“And yet you waited until today to call me.”
“Oh, I tried to get in touch with you on Saturday, but you weren’t around.” That would have been when I’d spent the day at Tiffany’s.
“You have me now. Is there anything in particular you want to say, or is this more posturing? Because I think I’ve made it quite clear that I won’t tolerate you harassing my staff or me any longer.”
There was a long drag of silence on the other end of the line, and I wondered if I’d pushed him too far.
“It’s counterproductive to make an enemy of me when we could work together instead.”
“I could. But as long as I dislike you, I know I’ve got good taste.”
Pierce clicked his tongue. “I thought you would have understood after that business with Star Constructions, but apparently not. And now that you’ve aired your dirty laundry publicly, I’m going to say to you the same thing I said to your favorite bartender. You should have realized not to fuck with me. But if this is how you want to play it, so be it.”
It was exactly the reaction I expected, but that didn’t diminish the sense of dread that trickled down my spine.
“Have a good day, Sam,” he said before hanging up, leaving me swallowing down the unfortunate fear that I’d just taken one risk I was absolutely going to regret.
A tall man wrapped in a thick navy coat stood in the center of the bar room, sharp eyes trailing over every beam, each worn floorboard. Once in a while, he paused, making notes on his smartphone.
“Could I see your identification again?” Amid my confusion, I wanted as many details as possible. Because if what I thought was happening was real, then I could be in trouble.
With a nod, he reached inside of his coat and held out his I.D. Yep, there it was: special agent for the Illinois Liquor Control Commission. Shit.
This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t. Okay, it could, but hell, it didn’t make any sense. It just ... What the hell was happening right now?
I noted his name on my phone, determined to take down as much information as possible in case I needed it later. Hell, of course, I would need it. “Thank you. Can you tell me why you’re here? Is this a routine inspection?” I’d never heard of them doing these unannounced before, but maybe things worked differently here?
“It’s been recognized that there is an error on your liquor license, and it was decided that a full review of the premises should be undertaken to determine any further issues.”
It has been months since Harry had handed over the bar. Months. Why now? Who would suddenly think to check on the paperwork out of nowhere for a bar that had been running for years?
Okay, stop. I could feel myself getting worked up, my breathing erratic, my thoughts even more so. Breathe. Think. The local permit renewed every two years, the ILCC one annually. But we’d had an inspection earlier in the year when the ownership was transferred, so this made no sense. Why were they back for an unannounced visit now?
“The license was renewed back in July when ownership was transferred. Shouldn’t this have been caught then?”
He pinned me with a sharp look. “Yes, it should.”
Fuck. I hated not having all the facts. I needed to recheck the paperwork as soon as possible and work out what the error was. How the hell had I missed it?
“That signage isn’t exactly visible from here,” he said, pointing to the license that hung on the small wall by my office before making another note. I forced myself to maintain a calm expression, adding a nod of acknowledgment. This wasn’t his fault. The ILCC conducted thousands of inspections a year. We were another item on his agenda.
Knowing that didn’t lessen my frustration, though.
I followed him as he stepped behind the bar, taking notes as he reviewed the stations. Even though I’d watched as the team closed last night, and I knew that they cleaned everything, my nerves were on edge. Please don’t let anything be wrong. “Can I ask how it got picked up now if it was missed before?”
“We’ve received an allegation that you’re operating in violation of your liquor license. We’ve opened an official investigation and identified the error on your local tavern license, which will need to be rectified before you can reopen.”
My stomach was in my throat. This was a waking nightmare. It didn’t matter that we were operating to the letter of the law and that I knew that without a shadow of doubt. Violation allegations were serious. Go out of business, serious. Do not pass GO. Do not collect $200 serious.
“Where did the allegation come from?”
“I’m not allowed to disclose that information.”
Of course, he couldn’t. Shit. It could be anyone. One of our neighbors—although that seemed unlikely, as none of the
m had been unfriendly—or anyone with a grudge …
And then it hit me.
Pierce. That dick. Of course, he would. Who else? Ever since that damn article put us against each other, he’d taken up a stance against me. But this just took the cake. The whole damn bakery.
How could he? This went beyond petty rivalry and veiled—although when had they ever been veiled?—comments to the press. This was underhanded. Vile. He’d gone from messing around with the contractor to actively trying to shut me down.
All because of … what? I was a threat to his profits? He’d made it clear we weren’t in the same league, but maybe that had just been posturing. So what, I call him out in one article, and this was how he retaliates?
Dammit, I never should have made those comments. What had I been thinking? Every other time I’d been asked to comment, I’d deflected. I knew it wouldn’t be a good idea to fight fire with fire.
The inspector continued to wander, taking notes. Definitely not a good idea.
In fact, it was easily the worst idea I’d ever had.
Faster than expected, he’d completed his notes, and my breath held in my throat as I waited for the verdict, my mind racing.
“There doesn’t appear to be any validity to the allegation, and your other permits seem to be up to date and in order. Based on that, and the fact that the initial error is minor, I can see no reason to revoke your license at this time.”
Sweet relief rushed through me, and I finally exhaled the breath I’d been holding.
“However,” he said, and I felt my blood pressure spiking again, “I do have to issue a temporary suspension. It will take effect immediately.” To his credit, he looked sympathetic to what he had to do. Goddamn, what a thankless job that must be. If I weren’t currently swimming in my own misery at the idea of the bar having to shut down, I would have offered my condolences. Instead, I focused on keeping my cool. I didn’t need to know what would happen if I blew up at him. Nothing good, I’m sure.
