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“Brought it earlier. I’m a softball coach, remember?”
“Well, I hope you don’t bring champagne for the girls.”
“Gatorade. But point being…I’ve got this.”
I take the mimosas to a table in the corner, thanking them, then returning to the counter. Next up is Celeste. We have enough for her, and that’s what matters. “Good evening, Celeste. How are you?”
She’s like the cold lawyer on a TV show, that’s how she is. She peers around, and I bet her robot eyes are recording everything. Her hair is slicked back in a bun as usual. She’s in a pantsuit as usual, this time in navy. And her tone is no nonsense, like it is every damn time as she asks tonelessly, “What do you recommend?”
“An Aperol Spritz or a Blushing Mimosa have been popular all night,” I say.
“Everyone serves Aperol Spritzes,” she says with a dismissive flick of her fingers, like I’ve committed the bartender equivalent of offering cupcakes in a cake jar world.
Think fast.
“I could make you a pineapple mimosa,” I suggest, but I’m officially flustered. I don’t know how to please this woman. “The other cocktail we’re offering is a blackberry mule with winter melon.” That usually wins over the fancier guests.
Her nose twitches. What the hell?
I gulp, glancing help me at Elodie, but she’s busy with other customers, smiling and holding a cute little pink tray with decadent dark chocolate bonbons and raspberry chocolate squares for a cooing pack of girls in matching black corsets, who are snapping her pic.
“Your bandana,” one says.
“Your necklace,” the next one adds.
“Your lipstick,” the final one puts in.
“Better With Pockets. Bling and Baubles. Mia and Lola,” she says, and what language is she speaking?
Celeste arches a brow their way, her machine brain recording the interaction and filing it under Elodie is better than this guy. “Or would you rather have some chocolate?” I ask her, flailing around some more. Elodie would know what to say. She’s so good on her feet. “Some people don’t like champagne cocktails and that’s okay.”
Have I been a bartender for years or am I a schoolboy, unsure what to say to a stern teacher?
Celeste studies the counter, the chocolates, and the cocktail ingredients when the corset crew leaves, and Elodie slides over to my side. “We could also pour you a glass of champagne or some sparkling water.”
She’s an angel. She must have heard the whole interaction.
Celeste doesn’t smile. But her ruler lips move for the first time. “A glass of sparkling would be fine. No chocolate though. I hate sugar,” she says with a shudder.
“I understand completely,” Elodie says with warmth in her voice. “I hate tomatoes.”
Celeste’s lips twitch.
I’d like to add I hate things but I don’t think it’d garner the same reaction so I keep my mouth shut as Elodie finds the bottle of sparkling water in the tiny fridge.
Why the hell didn’t I think of that? We do have it for those who don’t drink. Elodie hands it to me, and I pour it in a pretty flute, then give it to Celeste, who thanks me, then lifts her phone to tap the card reader.
I shake my head. “No charge.”
“I insist,” she says and the subtext is clear—she doesn’t want a tab with me.
Once she pays, she takes a sip of the water, sets down the flute at the end of the counter, and leaves, departing on her chariot of efficiency.
I breathe again, but I don’t feel settled. I have no idea what to think of that interaction. If it means anything at all. But when I look down at the counter, we’re nearly out of chocolate.
Shit.
Elodie was right. I was too focused on myself to think about her running out. I brought extra for me, but she went through the chocolates faster than expected. I hold up a finger to the next customer, then turn to Elodie, ready to fix this, stat, and I know just how to do it. “Tell Kenji to meet me outside the shop with extras…bonbons or whatever he has,” I say, since her main shop just closed a few minutes ago, and he won’t have left yet. “I’ll run down there and get some chocolate.”
