Tap That

by Jennifer Blackwood

  He has the audacity to smirk at me.

  And I was a damn fish chomping at the bait on the hook.

  I shrug. “An idiot.”

  It’s clear the guy isn’t an idiot. Tom wouldn’t have Reid show me the ropes if that were the case. Goading him isn’t even in the top ten on the how to deal with a new co-worker list. Possibly not even in the top 1000. But I won’t stand for the good ole boys club mentality, especially when it involves my new job.

  He huffs out a laugh. “You calling me stupid, princess?” he says through gritted teeth.

  Dear. Lord. My molars are about to be a pile of dust if this continues.

  I should stop. This needs to end because I’m acting unprofessionally. In fact, I should just fire myself right on the spot. Yet by the way he’s staring down at me, as if I’m an ant he wants to squish, I just can’t.

  I put my hand on my hip. “If the shoe fits.”

  STAHP, Callie. Do not pass go. Do not collect two hundred dollars.

  Stepping closer, he towers over me. I ignore the little voice in the back of my head that says, Guuuuurl, he’d crush you in bed.

  “Let’s get one thing clear. I don’t like you. I don’t have to like you. And you sure as hell don’t deserve to be here.”

  Maybe he’s right—I don’t deserve to be here—but he has no way of knowing that.

  I square my shoulders. If there’s one thing I don’t like, it’s being written off without a chance to prove myself. I’ve had enough of that from my parents; I don’t need it from some mouth breather, thank you very much. “You don’t even know me.”

  “And I don’t want to,” he spits back.

  It’s official. I hate Reid Morgan.

  3

  Reid

  “She had the nerve to call me an idiot.” My fingers tense, clenching my pint glass so tightly it’s a wonder it doesn’t shatter. A week later and I’m still steaming about our first interaction.

  My buddy Grayson joined me after my shift, and we’ve been sitting at the far end of the bar doing what he’s dubbed as “recon.”

  This means we’re watching Callie shadow our lead waitress, Lea.

  I tear my gaze from the petite brunette interacting with customers and, much to my distaste, charming a few regulars. Begrudgingly, I note how incredible she looks in a pair of black slacks that mold to her tight little body. The pants are nothing special, but man, she does them justice.

  Peering down into my beer glass, I drag a hand down my face, my palm rasping over the slight scruff along my jaw. I study my dangerously-close-to-becoming-tepid beer and mutter, “What a waste of a fine ass.” I immediately feel like a dick for thinking this and then voicing it.

  “Dude.” My head whips around to find Grayson gaping at me, his eyes wide with dismay. “This chick stole your job. You can’t waver with this”—he gestures to me—“talk about her ass.”

  Blowing out a long breath, I straighten my shoulders and shake off the errant thoughts. “You’re right. I need to keep my head in the game.” There must be a way to show Tom that he hired the wrong person for the job. I debated going into his office after my shift and telling him so, but Grayson caught me before I could do anything stupid.

  I return my attention to the high-top table a few feet away where Bert, a regular who’s gotta be pushing eighty years old, is showing Callie how he makes origami out of the napkins. He puts the finishing touches on what appears to be a tulip before he presents it to her with a flourish.

  “A beautiful flower for a beautiful lady.” He grins up at her with his massive overbite, holding the paper flower offering in his large palm.

  Bert got his dentures on the cheap via one of those sketchy, late-night infomercials, and they don’t fit properly, giving him a beaver-like overbite. We’re all convinced he’s got money coming out of his ears, though, because every year, he appears dressed up as Santa with hundreds of presents in tow—paid for himself—for the kids down at the local orphanage. He’s always a huge hit, too, since he has the white hair and beard, slight pot belly, and kindness practically oozing from his pores. No doubt about it, the man’s got a heart of gold.

  Now, though, Bert is officially a traitor. How the hell has he warmed up to her so fast? It’s only been a damn week.

  My lip curls up in disgust. “Bert never made me any damn origami shit.”

  Grayson’s chuckle startles me. I find him watching me with undisguised amusement. “And that’s been on your bucket list? Bert giving you a tulip made from a soggy bar napkin?”

  I make a face. “You know what I’m saying.” I glance back over to then see Bert blushing—fucking blushing—when Callie thanks him for the flower and bends down to land a soft peck on his cheek. A few stray strands of her simple ponytail drift forward. Goddamn my traitorous fingers that twitch with the odd urge to smooth them back and tuck them behind her ear.

  “I’ve got a plan.” Grayson’s voice draws my attention back to him. “But you’ve got to have your head in the game.”

  Offering a curt nod, I give my friend my complete attention. “My head’s in the game.”

  My head is in the game, my head is in the game, I chant silently. Because I can’t let any part of her body distract me, for God’s sake.

  He tosses back the remainder of the beer in his glass. Then with a calculated look in his eyes, Grayson clears his throat and calls out in Callie’s direction. “Miss? Excuse me, miss?”

  Her head whips around at the same time as Lea’s, who’s currently shooting the shit with Old Man Vern and Roy, two regulars at table twelve. They’re showing her something on Vern’s phone. From their talk of a fishing trip last week, I’d put money on it being their latest catch.

  As Grayson waves Callie over to us, a warm smile spreads across his face, causing his eyes to crinkle at the corners. Lea raises a brow at me, and I shrug. Hell if I know what my friend’s up to. Lea’s known me for years, so it doesn’t come as a shock that she’s picked up on my…dislike…of Callie. But apparently whatever look I just gave her placates her, and she goes back to her conversation with Vern and Roy.

  Once Callie steps up to the corner where we sit, she slides her round tray atop the glossy bar top.

  Wearing a polite expression, she presses her lips into a thin, tight smile. “Hi, guys.”

  My friend lays on the jovial tone. “Callie, is it?” When she offers a hesitant nod and smile, he offers, “I’m Grayson.” He lays a hand on my shoulder. “Reid and I go way back.”

  He props an elbow on the bar and rests his chin on his palm. Gazing up at her, he asks, “I have to ask, Callie. What would you say your favorite brew here is at On Tap?”

  Callie’s smile dims slightly, visibly faltering at Grayson’s request. Whether it’s from surprise or fright, I’m not entirely sure. Her eyes dart over to the chalkboard where our two seasonal brews are listed in Lea’s neat script before returning to my friend.

  “I’d, uh, recommend the summer pale ale. That’s my...favorite, by far.”

  It’s not so much Callie’s answer that makes me question her response as it is the hesitance in her voice. The uncertainty...

  “How about one of the regular beers?” I challenge. “One we normally have on tap.” My eyes war with hers, and her shoulders hitch up a notch at my steely tone.

  “The porter,” she responds quickly.

  “Interesting.” I lean my forearms on the bar top and raise my eyebrows with inquisitive interest. “Do you prefer the sweeter, more toffee-like one? Or the roasty and slightly bitter one?” Because we have two here, princess, I snipe internally. A week in and she still doesn’t have the menu memorized. It’s usually the first thing new employees have to know by heart. It’s what our company is all about. “The Bay porter or the chocolate porter?”

  “I, uh...” My eyes flicker down to Callie’s hand, and I notice her white-knuckled grip of the round tray. “I like the Bay porter because it’s sweeter.” Her words are rushed and barely audible. She abr
uptly snatches the empty tray, holding it to her chest as though it were a shield, and rushes off to bus a table just vacated by patrons.

  “What. The. He—” Grayson starts, but I wave him off.

  “Hold up,” I murmur quietly, my eyes still fixed on Callie.

  I know what my friend’s about to say, but right now, I’m more interested in what’s happening a few feet away from us. And I have a good feeling this is going to seal the deal.

  Callie is bussing a table where someone did the unthinkable and left what looks to be a half-full glass of our raspberry ale along with another glass barely a quarter of an inch full of one of our porters. Her nose wrinkles when she picks up the glasses, but she quickly wipes her expression clean.

  But not quick enough. Not before I catch sight of the utter distaste in her expression.

  I lean toward Grayson, my eyes narrowing on Callie. “Did you catch that?” I speak in a hushed tone.

  “Did we just see what I think we saw?” He appears stunned.

  A corner of my mouth hitches up because, make no mistake, blood is in the water. And I’m the shark.

  Oh, and Callie Anderson? She’s the wounded prey.

  “She just made a face.” My eyes flick over to his meaningfully. “When she grabbed those two leftover beers.”

  Lowering his voice, he adds, “And she sure as hell didn’t answer that porter question correctly.”

  “She’s a fucking imposter,” I whisper harshly, “in a goddamn microbrewery, and she doesn’t even like—or know—beer.”

  His lips curve into a menacing smirk, mirroring my own. Because he knows exactly what I’m thinking.

  Sabotage, baby. Sabotage.

  4

  Callie

  My feet are killing me. Two-inch heels seemed practical at the beginning of my shift. But thirteen hours later? Not so much. It’s been a week at the brewery, and nothing in my business management classes could have prepared me for dealing with this. I’ve managed to field the usual questions: What is your best beer? The Belgian wheat. What’s a great light beer? The pilsner. I may not have any firsthand knowledge of these recommendations, but I’ve seemed to skate by so far.

  I glance at my phone and frown. Normally, by this time, I’d be back at my apartment, sipping on a glass of a nice rosé on my couch and binge-watching my favorite Netflix shows. But tonight is the tenth anniversary of On Tap.

  The whole crew is here tonight—day shift, night, weekend, and yep, you guessed it, my favorite person. Reid and I are currently in a juvenile dirty look battle. I have my side-eye honed to perfection, but I must say, I’m truly impressed by his stink-eye abilities. It’s not something I’m proud of. I mean, I don’t think anyone sets out to be an absolute infant when it comes to dealing with their co-workers, but over the past week, it has spiraled to the point where it’s now a Pavlovian response when I see him. Reid’s face equals my eyes narrower than on-street parking downtown.

  Tom remarks on the great sales. I shoot Reid a sneer. Tom compliments the waitstaff. Reid throws a quick glare before laughing at a joke from one of the waitresses.

  God, it’s so immature, yet I will not be the person to cave first. Because, if anything, I am persistent.

  Sandy, one of the waitresses, is sitting next to me, taking long pulls from her pint glass. Honestly, it looks like piss, which is par for the course of how appetizing it sounds to me. I’ve been slowly emptying my pint into hers when she’s not looking. It’s a jerk move, but I’m not drinking it, so someone else might as well enjoy it.

  Tom clinks the top of his pint glass with a knife, and the table goes silent. “I’d like to thank you all for coming out tonight. Ten years and On Tap is still going strong.” He smiles as he looks at each one of us. “And to celebrate our anniversary, we have a new brew for you to try,” he says.

  With that, he pushes back from the table, disappears into the kitchen, and comes back with two pitchers of a light amber liquid.

  “This one is our new strawberry wheat. We’re going to name it Strawberry Shortcake.” His smile splits his face. During my initial interview, he told me that he’d been working on this beer for over a year.

  He hands one pitcher to Reid and the other to Sandy. They both walk around the table, filling the empty pint glasses in front of everyone’s place setting. I doubt I’ll be able to pull a switcheroo with two drinks—I’m not that talented.

  Reid inches his way closer to me with each glass he pours. Not that I’m keeping tabs on him or anything. It’s mostly just survival tactics because who knows if the dude is trustworthy with all this cutlery around. No butter knives are going to end up in my back. No sirree.

  Even from four spots away, I detect the faint scent of his cologne. Apparently, my wires are crossed—damn pheromones—because that scent goes directly south.

  Whoa, whoa, whoa. Nope. Not going there. He’s the enemy. He doesn’t want me here—he’s made that much crystal clear—and I refuse to allow whatever crack scent he’s wearing to penetrate my resolve.

  I grab my water and pretend to be extremely interested in my hydration when he finally gets to my spot. He grumbles something under his breath while he grabs my pint glass and hastily pours the beer. I expect him to slam the glass down on the table. Instead, he gently slides it in front of me. And waits. His lips. Holy crap. They’re pulled into a smile.

  I do everything in my power to school my features, but that beer scent wafting under my nose is enough to make my lip curl and my esophagus protest.

  “Bottoms up, princess.” And then his smile turns into that godforsaken smirk. “Go ahead, take a sip. I bet Tom wants to know what his newest employee thinks of his concoction.”

  I push the pint farther away. “I’m not thirsty right now.”

  “Says the person who was guzzling water like it was the last glass on earth.”

  “Was not.” Okay, I was. And it’s unnerving that he’s watching me as closely as I’m watching him. “And why are you watching me drink anyway? Kinda creepy, don’t you think?”

  He merely cocks his head in response. He doesn’t need to say anything to call me out on my bullshit. It must be a bartender thing.

  He leans down, one arm on the back of my chair, the other on the table, his body caging the side of me. “I see right through you, Callie. It’s only a matter of time before Tom does.” He moves in closer, and goose bumps fleck my skin from the way his warm breath caresses my ear as he speaks. “I’d drink up if I were you. Wouldn’t want the boss to think you don’t like beer.”

  Reid draws away and eyes me hard. And even though I wasn’t seconds ago, I’m parched as hell now. My mouth is dry, nervousness erupting within me at his clear challenge.

  I grab my water glass and realize that I’ve actually drained it, and the only thing in front of me is the stupid beer.

  Well, crap.

  Tom picks up his pint glass and smiles. “Here’s a toast to ten excellent years with you guys and to many decades more.” Everyone around me lifts their glasses, too, and I follow suit.

  “To Tom and On Tap,” people say, then clink their glasses and take a swig.

  I contemplate faking my sip until I glance across the table and lock eyes with Reid. He’s watching me. He knows I hate beer. The very thought of it touching my lips is about as repulsive as he is.

  He wants to see me suffer? Not on my watch, douche canoe. I give him a sweet smile and take a long pull of the beer.

  OhGodohGodohGod. So disgusting. Abort mission. I fight every overwhelming response to spew it back on the table and somehow manage to swallow it. I know that sounds like I gave the worst blow job known to all mankind. News flash: I’d take the blow job any day over beer.

  Just don’t tell my mom that.

  Sandy turns to me and hiccups. “This beer is so damn good.” Her eyes are glazed over, and I momentarily feel bad for dumping my beer into her glass earlier.

  “Yeah. So good,” I say.

  “What are your plans for to
morrow?”

  “Working as usual. Since I’m in training, I’m working six days a week for the foreseeable future.”

  “Ugh. That’s rough.”

  “You working?” Sandy typically works weekends. Especially since it’s easier to find a sitter for her kids on those days.

  “No, I switched with Reid.” She practically bounces in her seat when she says, “He’s taking my spot so I can go to a Beyoncé concert. Can’t miss the queen.”

  “How nice of him.”

  “He really is the sweetest,” she gushes.

  I didn’t know Reid before I got hired, but I’ve not come to the same conclusion about his personality that Sandy has. “Oh yes, so sweet,” I mumble. But she’s gone back to guzzling more beer and humming a Queen B song.

  I manage to lay low for the rest of the party and avoid looking in Reid’s general direction. That is, until the moment I get up to leave, and Reid and Tom are standing in the way of my exit.

  Tom pats me on my shoulder in a very dad-like fashion. “Ah, Callie. Thanks for coming tonight. Did you like the Strawberry Shortcake?”

  “Loved it. So very...strawberry-ish.” Lame. I am so freaking lame. Out of all the compliments I could give, it’d probably be nice to come up with an actual word. “I mean, the hops were on par.”

  Tom’s brows furrow, but he nods politely. Did I mention I love my boss? He’s been so patient with me, unlike a certain somebody standing next to him.

  Reid crosses his arms and gives me a shark’s smile. Shit. “Since you know so much about hops, Callie, what would you say the hops level is in the Strawberry Shortcake?” he asks.

  Hops level? Might as well ask me how to talk in iambic pentameter ’cause this just isn’t happening.

  “Oh...umm…” Crap, crap, crap. He’s totally going to know I’m a fraud, and I’ll get fired, and then what am I going to do for a job?

  My heartbeat pulses erratically in my neck, and things begin moving in slow motion. Like a clairvoyant, I can see my job going down like the Titanic. RIP kickass job. You were the Jack to my Rose, and I just let you slip through my fingers into the icy depths of the Atlantic.