Page 3 of Icy Pour

The southern drawl of his voice rolls through me smoother than a shot of whiskey after a long day, goosebumps pebbling every inch of my skin.

“You got it.” I shake out my hand, my heart racing as the lager inches toward the rim of the glass. I feel a bead of sweat ready to drop from my face, saying a silent prayer it doesn’t fall in this drink as I take in a deep breath through my nose, my jaw clenched tight.

Calm the hell down. It’s just a man buying a drink.

I jolt at the chill of liquid dripping down my hand.

“Shit.”

The beer spills over the top, and I race to stop the flow before it can do any more damage.

I hear a snicker as I scramble to find a bar towel to wipe off both the glass and my hand. I set the beer in front of him, harder than I should, and some foam sloshes over the side. And this goddamn stranger has the audacity to chuckle again.

“Something funny?” I snap.

He pulls his chin back, eyes wide, his lips pursed together. “Nope.”

“You think you can do this better?”

He raises his hands in surrender.

“That’s what I thought.” I stomp toward the wall of bottles behind me, catching my reflection in the mirror as I lean over the back of the bar. I drop my head into my hands as a chill of guilt washes over me—same as the damn beer did.

Shit. My second customer of the day and I’ve already screwed this up. My tongue traces my bottom lip, about to offer an apology, when Bethany’s voice pops up.

“Can I get another?”

I flash her a nod and walk back to the well to refill her glass. The well is right in front of the man who has me flustered in a way that…that…goddammit, why am I so flustered?

“You just opened, right?” he surprisingly asks. At least he didn’t storm out after I snapped at him. My face pales, anxiety slithering down my spine. Oh god…what if he’s one of those mystery reviewers or something? Maybe I should apologize.

“Just this week,” I throw over my shoulder as I walk the drink down to Bethany.

She takes a sip. “These are good…keep ’em coming this strong.”

“Yes ma’am.” I snicker. At least someone is happy with their service.

My gaze bounces around the bar. This day is not going according to plan and, of course, there’s that damn bell again. A three-top walks in and sits at a table across the room.

I stifle a groan. What the hell did I get myself into?

“Be right with you folks!” I acknowledge the group, grab a few napkins, and head their way.

After taking their orders, I start making their drinks. Two wanted beers—thank god—the other wanted a whiskey sour. Shit. I glance up to scan the bar, fumbling as I fill the glass with ice, whiskey, and sour mix. Is that right? I think this is normally made with egg whites? Hell, I don’t know. And hell if I know how to do that. I place an orange slice on the rim and call it good enough.

Another chuckle. “You interested in making money with this bar?” the stranger asks.

I grit my teeth, the apology I was debating immediately disappearing like a gust of wind. Who the hell does this guy think he is?

“Are we gonna have a problem?” I spit. “First, you walk in here and laugh at me when I overpoured your beer. Then you ask me if I want to make money at the bar I own? Yeah. I do want to make money. Kind of why I opened the place.” I suck my teeth. “I don’t need some stranger waltzing in here criticizing my every move.”

He tilts his head, lips pursed as he swirls the beer in his glass before taking a sip. “Got it.”

I huff away, deliver the drinks to the table, then walk back.

DING!

Fuck.