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But there’s just something about her that makes me want to break my rules. Hell, I was ready to head back out there and ask for her number. Right as I was about to return to the front of the house and throw caution to the wind, my eleven-year-old texted. She asked for my Webflix password so she could watch a new dragon flick at her friend’s home, and I had to tease her that parents are supposed to forget the passwords, not kids, and then she said I forgot to bring her glove to her softball game last week, and I had to point out, too, that bringing her mitt is her job, not mine.
And well, Eliza’s the priority and that’s just the way it is. By the time I sent her a gif of a dog rolling his eyes and saying yeah right, the woman at the bar was long gone.
Probably a sign from the universe and all that now’s not the time in my life to bend any rules.
Besides, as I pour a pale ale for one of my regular customers a half hour later, I’ve got expansion plans for Sticks and Stones on my mind. Maybe I’ll hear back tomorrow about that lease I’ve been trying to get for a second location over in the Marina District.
That’d be sweet.
And, since I’ve got Friday night off, I could spend my time firming up my ideas. I usually take off one Friday night a month to work on marketing or admin.
I set the beer down in front of the guy who stops by a couple nights a week and likes to talk all things hockey while he nurses a brew. “Here you go, Russ. Did you see Armstrong’s goal last night right after that line change?”
“Saw it. Called it. And then wondered why the Foxes don’t hire me for their coaching staff.”
“I ask myself the same damn thing,” I say, and I’m about to dive deep into strategy matters when Zoe strides right up to me, then tips her forehead toward the back of the bar. “Margo says she needs you. As in Gage Reginald Archer, right now.”
I cower a bit at the use of my full name. “You man the bar,” I say, then before she can correct me, I do it myself. “Woman the bar.”
“And he can learn,” says the spunky twenty-two-year-old with silvery hair and ears full of piercings. “But you can also just say handle the bar.”
“Got it,” I say, then hightail it to the back.
Right before I reach my office, my grandmother steps out, arches a brow, then says, “What did I tell you about sending private things to the restaurant?”
I rack my brain, trying to find a grandma-ism in there. What salty piece of life advice did she dispense about where to mail things? But I come up empty. “Nothing?”
“Then it’s time we discussed it now, young man,” she says, and at thirty-three I hardly feel young, but it’s best not to argue with Grams.
“Yes, ma’am.”
She beckons with her finger, and I follow her into my office, which is also her office, where she grabs a padded, pastel pink envelope from my desk. There’s no store name on it so I’ve no idea where it came from, but judging by the shape of the bulge I have an idea.
“Is that the new rolling pin I ordered? The cook was looking for one.”
“In a way,” Grams says, but there’s a smirk on her face as she thrusts the envelope at me.
I dip my hand inside and…that’s not a rolling pin at all. That’s a long, thick, purple dong.
In my hand.
I blink down at the thing that’s got to be at least eight inches. The tag on it says The Command Performance.
“How did this get here? Is it yours?” I ask, then instantly want to eat my words. I don’t want to know what Grams does with her alone time.
She’s staring at me with amused eyes. Holding her phone. And recording me.
Ah, hell.
“What are you going to do with that?” I ask, shocked at her speed. “Post it on the restaurant’s social media?”
“No. But I might show it to your brother. He’d find this entertaining too. So would your friends.”
I groan. “You’re not going to do that.” I’m not weirded out by sex toys. I think they’re awesome, and I’m glad women use them, and one of my biggest goals in life is to never discuss sex toys with my daughter. Ever. Like, in the history of forever.
But, all things being equal, I don’t need to give my brother or buddies more ammo either.
Grams lowers her phone, then pats my shoulder. “Don’t worry, hun. My generation had to deal with those desires too. And back then there wasn’t even a thing about sex positivity.”
