With one hand I hammer the silver shaker in the air until the vodka crystalizes. Toss the extra ice out of the glass and now that it’s chilled and foggy. I flip the shaker over, high in the air above the rim and strain the martini into it, the cascading stream so long it looks like I might miss.
But I don’t.
It’s all about the presentation.
The once unhappy guest is now watching like I’m a miracle worker, and when I hand her the martini, she beams at me, “Now that’s a bartender!”
Three stylishly suited men step up to take her place. They’ve been watching and they’re curious if I can be as good the second time. While I lean in to hear their order I catch the eyes of another man standing off to the side, not with this group, and not in line either. He’s got mid-length wavy hair and blue eyes. He looks like he owns the place. In fact, it occurs to me he probably does. I’m staring at Bryan Marchand himself, and he’s staring back.
He strolls up to the bar with his arms crossed as the three men see him and pause. They must know who he is because they’re dying to know what he’s about to say.
In a normal volume, more curious than anything, he says to me, “You don’t work here.”
“Nope.”
“Keep going. Show me.”
My ego cocks. We men are competitive to the point of being stupid. I speed up the entertaining presentation I’m capable of and make a Woodford Reserve Old Fashioned, a Ron Zacapa Rum Mojito, and a Don Julio Margarita—three very different cocktails, and the first two require muddling where you squash up a cheery and fresh mint, respectively. That shit takes time, and I’m on fire with the need to show him I can do it.
Despite the fact that I am not familiar with this particular bar and have to find the bottles necessary for the ingredients, I fly around without breaking a sweat, moving as smoothly as if I were seducing every person watching. I’ve gathered an audience. I can feel the eyes soaking in my every move and I have to admit, it’s exciting. As I flip even the awkwardly square bottle of Woodford in the air it makes more faces shift in my direction.
In no time flat I land three perfect cocktails in front of the men. “Gentlemen.”
The nervous-wreck kid is gone. Probably went to shit his pants in private.
They lift the glasses while I grab a towel and pretend to dry my hands, just for something to do while I wait for the verdict.
The first guy licks his lips. “Now that’s an Old Fashioned.”
The others nod and murmur similar remarks.
Approval all around and my smirk deepens as some people clap and say, “I want him making my drink!”
I feel good.
Free.
For the first time in years.
I’m trying to keep my cool and act like none of this matters. I lock eyes with Marchand and ask him, “What can I get you?”
Magnanimously he smiles and says to the crowd, and to me, “You want a job?”
Blinking away from him I fold the towel and place it on a clean surface, considering the offer. Meeting his eyes, I pause and say, “Count me in.”
“I’m Bryan Marchand. This is my restaurant.”
“Nice place.”
We shake hands. If he only knew it was me on the phone that day.
“How much do we owe you?” the man with the Woodford Old Fashioned asks.
Marchand waves him off, “This one’s on me, Kenny. Just make sure the write-up is a good one.”
Kenny laughs and walks off with his buddies.
“That was the food critic for Bon Appétit you just impressed.”
I keep my face cool. “Lucky him.”
Marchand’s smirk widens into a grin. “Lucky him,” he chuckles, eyeing me. “You’re a guest tonight. Join your friends. Give your number to my apprentice so we can put you on the schedule.” Grabbing a passing busser he asks in a quiet voice, “Where the fuck is Ty?”
“Bathroom.”
“Get him back here now.” Bryan heads off to schmooze.
I pop a couple bottles of beer for the next guest and Ty pops back in looking terrified of losing his job.
“You okay, kid?”
“I got it,” he mutters, irritated.
“Take it from here,” I hand one of the guests a bottle of Orpheus. “Can you ring that up?”
“Oh, you can’t do everything?”
I get in his face, my voice low. “Listen twerp, lose the attitude until you deserve to have one.”
He swallows hard and backs up to let me out.
“Who’s Marchand’s right hand man?”
“Why?”
“Answer the question.”
He mutters with a meek look, “Meagan Forrester,”
“No shit?” Off I go with a spring in my step. She wasn’t around when I was back here. I looked. She’s going to hate me working here and I can’t wait to see her face. Passing Justin’s table I slide in next to him.
“Where you been?” he asks, glancing at my empty hands. “Where’s your drink?”
The other three politicians are heavy in an argument about who the fuck cares. I lean over to whisper to my brother, “I just got a job.”
His head swings back in a surprise. “As a hustler?”
I mutter through stifled laughter, “No, you fuck. Bartending.”
“Oh, shit. That’s right! I forgot you used to be one.”
“Yep.”
“You gonna be happy doin’ it?”
“It cleared my head.”
His sharp, green eyes flicker with relief. “Good. Then do it.”
“Mind if I excuse myself? I have to give my number to the boss lady.”
“Get it done. You coming back?”
I glance to the irate Republicans and lock eyes with Justin. “Probably not.”
He chuckles through his nose, as my brother, not as a big mucky muck. “I fucking love your honesty, Jeremy.”
“Learned it from you.” I clap a hand on his shoulder and slide out of the booth. Before I take off, I point at him. “Don’t shoot this one into the grape vine just yet. Don’t know how long it’ll last.”
He mutters with disdain, “I’m not the one who calls everybody. Drives me fuckin’ crazy. And Jeremy? It’s good to see you smiling.”
I shake my head at him, suppressing a grin because yeah, both brothers I saw today told me the exact same thing. And yes, I have to admit it feels good to hear it, and good to be around them.
Maybe I’ll start spending more time with the family. But I don’t think so yet. I’m just not ready for that kind of closeness. I need room to breathe. Being the youngest wasn’t easy. Had to find my own voice as a man. Guess I’m still finding it. But all that love? Some people want it. For an introvert like me, it can be stifling.
I head off in search of my new lady boss.
A female in control of me.
Never had that before.
Should be fun.
Meagan
“Who’re you?” The man straightens up from whispering in Mira’s ear while she sips his bourbon. He glares at me despite his shining gold wedding band. Fucking skeezeball.
“I’m her boss, and I’m terribly sorry to have to interrupt, but I really need to talk to Mira about—” I almost say, her disease, but realize in time that would reflect badly on the restaurant. “—her promotion.”
“Really?” my inebriated hostess brightly says. “Already?”
I prompt his exit again. “Would you mind? Work business.”
He takes his elbow off the host stand and tells her a very slimy, “Congratulations.”
When she doesn’t respond or even look his way again, he awkwardly walks off.
Mira grabs my arm with a mild slur. “Promoted to server? They make so much more money.”
Classy, Mira, classy.
“I was thinking bartender.”
She’s not sure if I’m serious. Beautiful dumbass.
“But I don’t know how to make cocktails.”
�
�You sure know how to drink them.”
Her eyes go dead. “Oh. You’re not promoting me, are you…”
“Do we have a problem here?”
“No,” she whispers, embarrassed.
“We better not. Watch yourself. Drink some water. Coffee. Anything without alcohol content that will clear your head until your shift is up. That includes near beer. You’re on the clock. On Bryan’s dime. No more, you hear me?” I flip around and run right into the wall of muscle named Jeremy Cocker. “Oof!”
“Careful Boss Lady.”
My eyelashes rise and I lock eyes with him. His sexy smirk triggers instant confusion, not to mention what he called me. I guess he overheard me reprimanding our hostess and now he knows I have some authority here. To pass him I step to the right, and he steps to the left, blocking me.
“Move!”
He chuckles and steps out of my way, and I quickly return to the insanity of our pre-grand opening.
Entrée plates have been cleared from tables boasting beautiful floral centerpieces. Elegant desert dishes have taken their place, but even they have been scraped clean. Guests are smiling and happy and life is going pretty damn well. Outside of Mira’s boozing and one cook fucking up three garnishes before I caught him, it’s a much smoother night than Bryan or I anticipated.
But then Jeremy’s deep voice ripples into my backside, “So, when do you want me back?”
I flip around and ask him in a volume only heard by us. “Have you been following me this whole time?”
He matches my quiet by leaning in, his voice husky. “You mean for a whole two minutes? Yes.”
“Why?!”
“I need to know when you want me back.”
His question makes no sense. “I never had you!” I blurt, totally impatient.
“Well you have me now.”
We stare at each other and he’s got that look in his eyes again, like he’s on the verge of grinning. Some sort of private joke at my expense. Through gritted teeth I demand, “What are you talking about? I don’t want you.”
His eyes flicker like that stilled him. Or shocked him. But the smirk flashes back into place right before he says, “It’s not your decision to make.”
“Come here!” I storm off to a server station where we’re out of earshot of the guests. And of Bryan. If Jeremy Cocker is coming onto me he’s picked the worst time to do it. But since he’s so persistent, I must handle this right here and now, and shut it down.
He walks up and casually slides his hands into his suit pants pockets. “Lady Boss tells me to come, I come.”
“Look, I’m flattered. But I get to decide who I want and who I don’t. Your superhuman level of confidence won’t win the girl this time, got it? I’m not interested!”
A grin flashes. “You’re not? You sure about that?”
“Very sure.”
I freeze as he steps closer to me, very slowly leans in and whispers into the sensitive shell of my ear, “I’m not interested in you either, Meagan.” Shivers breeze down my side as I breathe him in. He lingers here and I feel my phone being slipped out of my hand.
“Give that back!”
From under dark eyebrows he glances up at me, swipes it open, types something in, and hands it back. “Call me,” he smirks.
I stare after Jeremy as he strolls away headed for the exit. He rakes his fingers through his hair, spins around, walks backward two steps, nods to me, then spins around again and is gone.
Like a mummy I walk out from the server station.
“Ms. Forrester?”
Glancing over I discover I’m face-to-face with Kenny Lively, the restaurant critic. An immediate smile gets plastered on my face. “Mr. Lively! Are you having an enjoyable evening?”
“I am. What was that man’s name, the one you were just talking to?”
You never argue or ask why, to a food critic. You just give them anything they want. “That was Jeremy Cocker. He’s Senator Justin Cocker’s brother.”
The critic’s salt and pepper eyebrows fly up. “Really? How interesting. He sure can make a drink. The female bartender wasn’t nearly as skilled. But don’t worry! I won’t mention that. He deserves all the accolades I’ll give. In fact, I’d recommend you have him teach the others as soon as possible. That man has a gift.”
Not wanting to sound like I have no idea what the heck he’s talking about, I smile and nod. “Great idea, Mr. Lively. I’ll be sure to tell Bryan.”
“Good. Fantastic party.” He returns to his friends and I head to the kitchen to decipher that bizarre exchange. Remembering my phone I lift it up and read what thick fingers and a smirk just typed:
Free any day of the week. Schedule away…Boss.
And then his phone number.
“What the fuck,” I mutter. Bryan strolls into the kitchen, beaming from the success of the evening. “You didn’t hire any new bartenders, did you?”
“What are you blathering about?”
“Did you hire Jeremy Cocker as bartender? Because that is the worst idea I’ve ever heard of, Bryan. You didn’t seriously do that, did you?”
Bryan’s eyes glaze over and his tone becomes cold and detached. “Are you going to tell me how to run my restaurant?”
“No, I—”
“—You don’t want me to second guess hiring you, do you?”
“What? No, I—”
“Can’t you see I’m busy?” His voice rises. “Or are you so self-involved that you can’t see I’m launching a fucking restaurant here?!”
My mouth slams shut and I hold up a hand in surrender, flipping on my heel.
God, I hate being talked to like that. All the chefs were watching. I’m mortified but I have to get to the bottom of this. Did he hire Jeremy? If I’m not going to get any answers from him I’ll get them from Ty.
Smiling at guests waiting to order drinks, I step behind the bar and sidle up to him, asking out of the corner of my mouth in a very quiet voice, “Did Bryan hire a bartender tonight?”
Uncorking a bottle of red wine, Ty grumbles, “Some show-off came back here and took over. I was totally handling it but he pushed me aside. Fuckin’ dick.”
“What’d he look like?”
“Like an asshole.”
“You’re not helping.” I abandon him for the next bartender, Cathy. She’s shaking up a martini when she spots me. “What happened?”
Reliable, intelligent and despite what the critic said about her, she’s good at her job. Lowering her voice Cathy confides, “Ty was losing it. One of the guests was pissed, almost lost her mind and was going to complain to you, I’m sure, but then this gorgeous guy jumped back here, flirted with her, made her a hell of a drink and changed the whole dynamic. Bryan saw it, told him to make drinks for the next guys who just happened to be Kenny Lively and his cohorts.” Her eyebrows go up as she and I both register the gamble that was. “He aced it, Meagan.”
“Where was I during all of this?”
“It happened quickly. One minute I look over and see Ty cracking. The next, stud monster is saving the day with Bryan and Bon Appétit as his audience.” Kathy pauses for effect so this can sink in. “Bryan hired him on the spot. And I hate to say it, but you know what my prediction is?”
I take a not-so-wild guess. “This will be Ty’s last night.”
“Yup,” She pours her shaker’s contents into a martini glass and throws a sprig of mint in.
My mind is reeling with this new intel, but the chilled glass caught my eye. “That’s a great idea. You weren’t doing that at the dry run.”
She shrugs, “I saw the new guy do it.”
“Not you, too?” I mutter, heading out as she quizzically watches me.
How has Jeremy Cocker managed to charm everyone while I wasn’t looking?
So I was wrong in thinking he was coming onto me, but he certainly led me to believe it. Or, did he? Was that all just in my head? One thing I know? Working with him is going to be hell.
Meagan
/> Kicking off these heels I set my keys down on the accent table by the front door of my one-bedroom condo. As part of my nightly ritual I trace my fingertips lightly atop a framed picture of my brother Devin with his dog, lingering with a grief-filled tug at my heart.
“Miss you.”
I pad into the luxurious comfort of my living room, eager for the feeling of home after a rough night.
I took a lot of care in creating a sanctuary I could lean into when a stressful day threatened to take me to my knees. I want to tuck myself into the tufted couch with some tea, and call my sister for some love.
I roll my eyes at the sink full of dishes and say, deadpan, “You guys’ll have to wait.”
Grabbing a jam-filled wedge of Brie from the fridge, I slip it onto a small metal platter to soften in the toaster oven while I gather gluten-free crackers, a chamomile teabag, and my favorite mug, turning the kettle on to slowly come to a boil.
“One day I’ll have my own grand opening,” I whisper to my hot pink orchid petals, touching their silkiness and allowing the evening to wash off of my soul. “And when I do I’m going to recycle. Can you believe he shot that idea down? Of all things to make a stand about.”
With my little snack, my phone, and a delicious smelling cup of tea I crawl onto the couch and pick up last month’s copy of Bon Appétit, looking for the article Kenny Lively writes so I can get a feel for what he might say about us. In between bites of cheese I mutter to myself, “Hmm, he’s got a sense of humor, so that’s nice.”
A text beep comes through. With my head still buried in the article I reach for my phone and hold it, forgetting to check it because I’m so absorbed in Kenny’s descriptive words. Fifteen minutes of reading other food articles later, the phone rings.
I answer, “Hello,” distracted.
“You didn’t answer my text.”
Blinking away from the magazine, I tell Bryan, “Oh, sorry, I was reading and I disappeared for a little while.”
“Are you telling me you saw my text and didn’t answer?!”
Cocky Soldier: A Military Romance (Cocker Brothers of Atlanta Book 6) Page 6
