Tap That
Jennifer Blackwood
RC Boldt
Tap That
Copyright © 2018 by RC Boldt & Jennifer Blackwood
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 9780996893886
Editing: Jenny Sims
Proofreaders:
Deaton Author Services
Judy’s Proofreading Services
Cover design: RBA Designs
Photographer: Pat Lee
Model: Steve Moriarty
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication and use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by trademark owners. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features in any media form are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if one of these terms are used in this work of fiction.
Excerpt from The Rule Book Copyright @ 2016 by Jennifer Blackwood
Excerpt from CLAM JAM Copyright @ 2017 by RC Boldt
Contents
1. Reid
2. Callie
3. Reid
4. Callie
5. Reid
6. Callie
7. Reid
8. Callie
9. Reid
10. Callie
11. Reid
12. Callie
13. Reid
14. Callie
15. Reid
16. Callie
17. Reid
18. Callie
19. Reid
20. Callie
21. Callie
22. Reid
23. Callie
24. Reid
25. Callie
26. Reid
27. Callie
28. Reid
29. Callie
30. Reid
31. Callie
32. Reid
33. Callie
34. Reid/Callie
Dear Reader
Stay Connected To Jennifer & RC
Excerpt from Jennifer Blackwood
Excerpt from RC Boldt
About the Authors
Acknowledgments
1
Reid
“I’d like to be considered for the management position. I’ve worked here for some time now, and I think as someone vested in the business...shit.”
I drag a hand over the back of my neck, my muscles now so tense with stress they ache. “I sound like an overeager douche,” I mutter. With a disgusted groan, I stare up at the large wooden beams crisscrossing the vaulted ceiling of the storeroom where I’ve been pacing, attempting to give myself a damn pep talk in preparation for my quarterly review meeting.
I’m not only planning to ask for a raise but I also plan to toss my hat into the ring for the management position. This is my chance to finally have something more. To be more than just On Tap’s bartender.
“Reid?”
My head whips around at the interruption to find one of our waitresses, Lea. She offers a reassuring smile and tips her head in the direction of Tom’s office.
“Boss is ready for you,” she says. I nod and walk over, reaching her in two quick strides. She lays a comforting hand on my shoulder and says, “You got this. Just be your usual self.”
The whole wait staff knows I’ve been biding my time for a year now, waiting for the perfect opportunity to ask about the position. Lea and a couple of the other girls have made it their mission to get me that job as soon as it became available last week. We all just found out Big Al is retiring to his family estate in Georgia.
Lea turns and leaves the storeroom. With a sigh, I rake a hand through my hair and watch her disappear down the hallway leading to the open bar area. My “home” away from home for the past five years, the high-top tables and stools are placed throughout, and the artfully cut bar top is a multi-colored slab of wood, much like a butcher’s block.
On Tap’s mix of modern and rustic makes everyone feel comfortable. The combination of wooden beams with the shiny, silver-colored ceiling fans placed accordingly help to ward off the usual heat and humidity that goes hand in hand with Miami, Florida. Our outdoor seating overlooks a small section of Biscayne Bay, and those who don’t mind the heat often take their drinks outside and enjoy the calm serenity offered by the Bay view.
A diamond in the rough, On Tap is treasured among the locals, and within the past few years, we’ve garnered the attention of tourists. Even the food and beverage critics have been impressed with our unique craft brews, some of which are my own concoctions.
Smoothing a hand down my dark-blue polo shirt, I put my game face on and head over to Tom’s office. After I quickly rap my knuckles on the closed door, his voice calls out for me to enter. You got this in the bag. You’ve been here for five years. No one is more qualified for the position.
With a relaxed yet what I hope is a confident smile in place, I enter and close the door behind me. Striding over, I settle into a well-worn, high-back leather chair across from his desk. I brace my arms on the cool metal armrests and meet my boss’s gaze head-on. With authority. I can do this. I am going to be assertive. No more “Reid’s just a bartender” shit.
Tom’s bald head reflects like a freshly polished pint glass in the florescent lighting as he sits at his desk. A wide smile crosses his face when he lifts his head and his gaze meets mine. “Reid! You ready for your performance evaluation?”
I stretch the taut muscles in my neck. Now or never. “Yes, sir.”
I like Tom. He’s always been a good boss. Fair. Never smarmy with the waitresses. Maybe a bit stingy with his alcohol whenever he’s mixing behind the bar, but I can’t fault him for wanting to save a little money here and there.
He shuffles a few papers on his desk and then meets my gaze again. “Your performance lately is impressive. I’ve noticed you’ve taken on extra shifts, even going as far as to make sure customers get a ride home after last call.”
Good to know that my overtime hasn’t been overlooked. I’ve put in a shit-load of hours, and now it’s time to see if it’s paid off. “Thank you, sir.”
Do it. Ask for it.
“I know Big Al just retired last week—still getting that damn glitter out of the seat cushions, by the way—but we need to get a new manager in place ASAP.”
“Yes, about that...”
I swallow hard. The words are right there on the tip of my tongue. Give the position to me. This is what I want.
“I found the perfect replacement.”
“Oh?”
Maybe I didn’t even need to ask and he was just going to give it to me. Perfect. This is going way better than I expected. Give it a few more years, and I’ll have enough money to open my own bar. This experience will solidify exactly what I need to know in order to ensure my place is successful. I straighten in my chair, feeling bolder now.
Tom reaches for his desk phone and punches a programmed key labeled for the phone at the waitress station. “Becky, can you send Callie in?”
What?
The door squeaks open, and I crane my ne
ck to see who the hell this Callie is.
Seconds later, she hovers nervously in the doorway before Tom calls for her to enter. I’ve got to say, I’m not entirely sure what this woman’s doing here or what contribution she’ll have to my review meeting, but damn, I sure as hell don’t mind the sight of her.
My eyes trail from her red peep-toe shoes up the expanse of the silkiest-looking legs I’ve ever seen peeking out from beneath a dark-blue knee-length pencil skirt. Her simple sleeveless white blouse has delicate pearl buttons, and my gaze stutters briefly over her full lips, painted a muted shade of red. Her straight nose flares slightly at the tip, and long dark lashes frame her brown doe eyes. Her hair is a plain shade of brown with a smattering of golden highlights. It’s the kind of hair I can easily imagine tangling my fingers in.
Abruptly, I shake off the thought and get my mind back on track.
Maybe she’s my replacement. With legs like that, she’ll be making bank on Fridays and Saturdays. Most jobs aren’t focused on looks, but a pretty smile and a nice ass won’t hurt when you work at a bar.
Tom waves a hand, gesturing back and forth between the two of us. “Reid, I’d like you to meet Callie Anderson, our new management trainee. Callie, this is Reid Morgan, my lead bartender.” He turns to me. “Reid, since you know the brewery the best, I’d like you to be the one who shows her the ropes. I trust you.”
My boss’s words fade off into the background as my mind registers what he just announced. Rapid-fire, my brain shoots off a painfully jarring recap.
Management trainee.
Callie Anderson.
Not me.
Lead bartender.
Show her the ropes.
Fuck.
The woman reaches out her hand, a polite smile gracing her lips. “Hi, Reid. Nice to meet you.”
I eye her outstretched hand for a beat, my eyes flickering between it and her eyes. Like a juvenile, it crosses my mind to refuse to shake her hand and to scowl at her menacingly, making my feelings about this situation completely transparent.
But I don’t.
Her features tighten, her mouth forming a slight frown. Finally, I reach and grasp her hand and give it a curt shake. My nostrils flare as I fight to restrain my anger and resentment. By the way her eyes widen, displaying her nervousness, it’s clear she’s not one hundred percent confident.
Guess I’m not entirely successful at masking my emotions right now.
“Hey.” That’s it—that’s as much of a greeting I manage to force between my gritted teeth.
“So great to meet you.” Her expression shifts to more earnest. “I look forward to you showing me around.”
Yeah. It’s so great.
2
Callie
Truth bomb: Never lie on your résumé.
Not that I lied about anything big, per se. I didn’t claim I knew Mandarin or that I’m skilled in computer coding, but I possibly hinted at the fact that I was a beer connoisseur. Okay, yes, I put it in damn italics on the résumé, so I might as well have put it in glaringly bold, pink font.
And with connoisseur, I use this in the loosest of terms. As in one time in college, I could definitely tell it was Bud Light in my cup instead of a cran vodka, and my digested dinner almost ended up on the dance floor.
And now, here I am, the manager-in-training at one of the up-and-coming brew pubs in Miami.
Yeah, the irony does not escape me. I once worked in a bottle room at a grocery store in high school and made good use of the inside of my shirt and my travel-size perfume when I came across moldy beer cans.
I clear my throat, and my gaze catches Reid’s as he stares me down from the doorway. Arctic chill, party of one.
I return my focus to my new boss. “Thank you again for this opportunity, Mr. Becks.”
“Please, call me Tom,” he says. “Go ahead with Reid and he’ll show you what you need to know. We’re honored to have a connoisseur in our presence.”
It’s official—I’m never lying on my résumé again.
“You won’t be disappointed,” I say.
Yet.
I shake Tom’s hand, and then I’m out the door, trailing Reid.
Reid Morgan. I internally repeat his name while I covertly check out his ass. God, even his name is sexy. My eyes trail up his form, and man, this guy is huge. As in freaking Redwood forest huge. I’m five foot four on a good day, and he must be fielding calls from NBA scouts. Possibly the Justice League, judging by the undeniable way his muscles bulge in his polo shirt.
My initial thought is holy hell. Where are guys like him on my dating apps? Because I sure as heck would be going out more often.
However, it becomes increasingly evident that I’m walking in this guy’s pissed-off wake. Anger practically radiates from him like some sort of magical force field.
He still hasn’t even acknowledged me, aside from a single Neanderthal-like grunt in my direction when I entered Tom’s office.
As Tom explained on the phone when he called to hire me, this job is mine as long as I pass my ninety-day evaluation. He wants to make sure I understand what’s required to manage this pub, so during my three-month trial period, I’ll be circulating through every job at On Tap. This includes dishwashing, basic food prep, bartending, and waitressing. The way I see it, if dealing with crazies in retail on Black Friday didn’t break me, someone whining about an overcooked burger won’t either.
Before I even clear the hallway that leads to the main restaurant, Mr. Hulk Incarnate has used his long-legged stride to his advantage and is already behind the bar, shining pint glasses.
I sidle up beside him and rest my elbows on the bar top. The lacquered wood is spotless aside from the two smudges my skin just left. The best thing to do is try to get to know him since I’ll be working with him on practically every shift for the next few weeks. And if he’s important to Tom, that means Reid’s approval will also be paramount in keeping my job. “So...I guess I should get started learning the ropes as a bartender since Tom wants me to shadow you today.”
He doesn’t even spare me a glance. He just keeps polishing as if his life depends on it. Man of few words.
“I mean, not literally your shadow, although I guess I could be, huh, big guy? Would you feel more comfortable if I used a step stool?”
Nope. Nada. Not even a hint of a smile.
Okay, not my best material, but I can’t stand awkward silences, and there aren’t customers at the bar to focus my attention. Only Reid and his suffocating silence.
“Can you hear me from down here? Yoohoo.” I wave my hand in front of his face, and he finally deigns to look in my direction.
For a bartender, he’s a whole other level of surly.
“Hey. Uh, I’m sorry. It was the tall joke, wasn’t it?” I wince. “I get it. I used to get called short stuff all the time when I was younger.”
He’s back to scrubbing and studiously ignoring me. What is with this guy? I get that I’m new, but technically, I’m his superior. But as they say in the service industry—when being shut out by a broody prick, you slap a smile on your face and silently put a curse on him that he’ll grow a unibrow. Or something like that.
“All right then.” I straighten and forgo the whole attempt at being personable. “So what am I going to learn today?”
He grunts and hands me a bleach-soaked rag.
Okay, this is getting a little ridiculous. Obviously, I can’t go back in Tom’s office because he’ll think I’m an incompetent crybaby who should get her job rescinded, but I’m getting stonewalled here and need to learn something today or else this will be a total wash. Anger bubbles up, and I press my hands against the counter. At the firm feel of the wooden bar top beneath my palms, I attempt to calm myself and chant internally.
I’m strong, confident, unshakeable. I can do this.
Who has obviously angered a man who can squish you with his pinky.
Mmm, nope. Not working.
“I’m sorry. Let me r
epeat myself a little clearer.” I make sure to draw out the words, emphasizing each one. Because maybe this guy isn’t firing on all cylinders. Who am I to judge? “Will we start at the bar? Or will we go over the ser-ving rou-tine?”
Ever so slowly, he turns to me. His jaw clenches and unclenches, and he narrows his eyes to a near squint. “I might only be the bartender, but you don’t need to talk to me that way.” He practically bites out the words.
“I...uh.” Yeah, I got nothing. This is the most he’s spoken in a matter of thirty minutes. I square my shoulders. “Just making sure you can talk. All I’ve heard from you are grunts.”
“Literally”—he leans in closer, his voice low and steely—“my job includes talking to people.” I can’t look away from his intense stare. “All. Day. Long.”
And to think I thought he was cute at first. Those baby blues can’t cancel out the Eeyore of a personality, that’s for damn sure. Even if they’re paired with perfectly mussed light-brown hair. That’s lady boner kryptonite material…if he wasn’t an ass.
He wants to play it this way? Be rude to me for no apparent reason? Fine. Two can play this game. “You know, I wouldn’t have to talk to you that way if you’d actually, you know”—I hold up my hand, mimicking a mouth talking—“talk.” I tilt my chin up, giving a tight-lipped, saccharine smile.
“Talk to me like what, exactly?” he challenges.
Don’t say it.
Do. Not. Say. It.
He’s baiting you, girl. You’re stronger than this. You have a business degree and people to impress.
Tap That Page 1
