Page 4 of Icy Pour

I hate that goddamn bell.

A few more customers pop in. Only in Wisconsin is a bar this busy at noon on a weekday. And I have no bartender. Fantastic.

I quickly take their orders, thanking god, once again, that this is a beer town and everyone orders something on draft. Each time I pull the tap, I notice the annoyingly handsome stranger watching carefully, his eyes never wandering far.

As I pour another, the damn beer stops flowing. Great. Just what I need—no one to cover the bar and I have to swap the keg.

“Gotta check something in the back for a second…be right back!” I say to everyone, and no one all at once.

I head off to see what the hell is going on and find an empty keg. I work to change it as quickly as I can, knowing the bar is getting busy. Bethany will need another refill shortly. I need to check on the three-top at the table, and I swear I’ve heard that damn bell ring at least twice since I’ve been back here. And that doesn’t even take into account how flustered I am with that damn chiseled jaw watching, ready to pounce on every mistake.

Walking out of the backroom, a cold ache settles in my chest, my stomach twisting like a corkscrew as I see an empty bar stool right where he was sitting.

Gone.

I let out a loud sigh. It’s probably for the best. I swear to god that man specifically came in here to be a jackass and⁠—

My thought is interrupted by a sound that is, for once, decidedly not the bell.

Not even close.

The smooth timbre hits me deep in the chest before the rest of me catches up with what the hell is going on.

“Another vodka tonic coming right up!” The words come from behind the bar. From the man with a deep southern drawl. The one whose eyes have been glued to me like a bug on a fly trap. The man who has ditched his coveralls and is wearing a tight-as-hell white t-shirt tucked into a worn pair of jeans. The man who is now standing behind my bar making a drink for my customers.

I remind myself to close my mouth. What the hell is happening?

I’m about to grab him by the shirt and toss him out of my bar when something deep in my gut stops me. I stand frozen, eyes narrowed and breath short, mimicking what he’s done to me since the moment he walked in.

Let’s see him pour a drink with someone watching his every move.

I want to criticize everything he’s doing. Snicker when he makes a mistake. Call him out for every little misstep. But I can’t.

Shit. He’s good at this.

He pours Bethany’s drink with ease, lifting the bottle up high for what seems to be the perfect amount of time with the perfect form. He grabs the soda gun to fill it the rest of the way, before adding the lime I clearly forgot, and hands it over to her, easily shifting and talking to another guest who must have come in while I was gone. He smiles, warm and welcoming as he takes their order. My breath hitches as I watch his calloused hand grab a pint glass, tilting it at a precise angle to start, then slowly straightening it. The foam on the top and the golden lager beneath make it look like it’s straight out of a magazine.

I blink, forcing myself to acknowledge this is actually happening when he catches my gaze. It’s a quick, quiet look, before returning to the task at hand. The quickness matches my pulse, but the quiet is not a thing my heart is capable of right now. I furiously rub my fingers against my flannel, trying to calm down whatever the hell is happening in my veins. If I didn’t know this shirt was red, I’d be convinced my blood is pumping out of my chest. My feet walk the length of the bar before I can stop them, my anger from earlier evaporating like the melted snow in spring.

“Thanks.”

He doesn’t look up from the drink he’s making. “Looked like you needed the help.”

“I did. I do,” I say with a crack in my voice. “You’re a bartender?”

“Used to be. Haven’t done it in a while, but it’s like riding a bike. Question is…are you?”

I huff out a quiet laugh. “I guess that’s a pretty obvious no, huh? I’m just a guy who was crazy enough to buy a bar not knowing anything about making drinks. I hired someone, but he was a no-show today. First week open and my first employee quit after a few days. I thought I could surely make a few drinks but…” I rub my hand across the back of my neck. “You can see how well that’s going.”

He passes a drink to a customer across the bar, wiping his hands off on a towel tucked into his waistband before reaching out his hand to shake mine.

“Johnny,” he says, his voice calm. Deep. Inviting. Our palms touch, his rough fingers wrapping around the top of my hand with a firm grip. “Happy to help you out for the rest of the day if you like.”

“Nice to meet you. Name’s Walt,” I mutter, his hand still in mine, my heart hammering in my chest and my mind wondering why I can’t seem to pull back from his touch.

He lets go, his gaze still fixed on mine. “Like the name of the bar?”

I snicker. “Yeah. Exactly that. And I…I’d appreciate the help, Johnny.”