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“Yep.”

“Fine. We’ll talk in a couple weeks about it,” he muttered, looking back at the computer screen.

I leaned against a filing cabinet. “Can I ask you something off-the-wall and on the down-low?”

Lark gave me his full attention. “You can ask. I may not answer.”

His standard response.

“What’s with Tundra? He works at Platinum’s. Why is he always here?”

Lark shrugged. “I’m not his mother or his keeper. He wants to spend his time here instead of the clubhouse or his place, it’s not my business.” He gave me a pointed look. “It’s not yours either. He’s a paying customer like anyone else.”

I smiled with my lips closed to control my temper. “I’m aware, Lark. I’m just concerned.”

Lark turned back to the computer screen. “Don’t be. He’s a man who doesn’t need us getting in his business.”

I left the office and joined Ryan, also known as Nickel, behind the bar. “How’s it going?”

“Not bad for a Tuesday before a holiday.”

I counted the number of tables with customers. Half were filled and eight people sat at the bar.

“You don’t agree, sis?” Nickel asked.

I was competitive to an absolute fault. It drove me in a way that people either loved me or hated me for it.

To achieve my goal of expanding this place to more locations, we needed far more customers.

“I didn’t say that,” I muttered.

My triplet chuckled. “You didn’t have to, it’s written all over your face.”

“Whatever. Where’s Adam?”

“On a break. I’m going to check on the tables.”

Tundra held up his beer bottle and twisted it in the air.

I nodded, grabbed another bottle, uncapped it, and put it in front of him. “Are you having food?”

He shrugged a shoulder. “Maybe an app. Sarah’s expecting me home by eight.”

Dinner at eight did not sound great to me. Lark’s words about it not being my business replayed in my head.

I nodded. “You want the potato skins again?”

He shook his head. “Do you remember everyone’s orders like that?”

I grinned and lied. “It’s a gift.”

I only remembered his orders that way. When he had beer, it was potatoes - skins or chili cheese fries. I’d pushed Lark to consider offering homemade potato chips because I thought Tundra might dig that, but Lark said that wasn’t a good idea. If Tundra ordered mixed drinks, he had full entrées, typically seafood. I wondered if Sarah knew that about him.

“What’ll it be then?” I asked.

“Gimme a side salad, no dressing.”

I reached for his forehead, then stopped myself. “Are you okay? You never order a salad.”