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What if us starting this pub delays me starting a family?
Seeing her swollen with our baby?
Holding him in her arms?
Me holding them?
What if this choice ruins the possibility for that one?
Harper would never make me choose, but I want her to know I’m responsible enough that I don’t need to be told when to do the right thing.
An uncomfortable twinge kicks at the base of my neck encouraging me to give it a squeeze.
Fuck, I’m overthinking everything again.
I need a moment to truly vibe the situation out.
Find that instinct Uncle Rory stressed I listen to when making any decision going forward not because he was worried about me blowing all their money but for fear of me living with too many regrets, claiming regret can poison the pint of life almost as badly as fear itself.
Giving my work uniform tie a loosen, I state to Nix, “Meet me at the bar.”
The well-built realtor doesn’t ask questions. Doesn’t object. Simply strolls over slowly, watching me watch him.
“You’re going to behave like you’re a regular,” I instruct while making my way around to where I would be serving him. “Act like this place is up and running.” Sliding into position, I add, “Pretend we’re a couple years in and this is where you go when you need that shot of home away from home.”
Nix parks his arse on the barstool, ready to play his role. “O’Clery.”
“Wagner.” Reaching for one of the small napkins is followed by a flick of the wrist trick that gets him to smirk. “Manhattan or martini tonight?”
His jaw drops in actual shock. “How the fuck did you know that’s what I drink?”
“You’re a regular,” I playfully remind, encouraging him to get back into character. “It’s my job to know. It’s what makes our pub a place you call home instead of just visit when the others are full.” Two steps backward allows me to reach for a dusty martini glass knowing both drinks are served in it. “Sloan working late?”
Doing his best to stay in character gets him casually nodding. “Yeah, but she’s supposed to meet me here in a few. Parents have the kid so we can have a date night.”
The teasing jab is given on a quirked eyebrow. “And you chose here?”
“Warm up drinks.”
“Martini it is.” I place the glass on the napkin with another sleight of wrist trick, chuckles lightly leaving me. “Gin or vodka tonight?”
“Lets go gin.”
“You finally close on the luxury cabin deal out in Applecourt?” My actions mimic the grabbing of mixing glass. The collecting of the gin. The momentary pause to top off an invisible person’s drink with a different booze before resuming the making of his. “Wasn’t some celebrity model looking at it?”
An impressed expression crosses his face; however, I’m uncertain if it’s from the scenario or watching me work. “She got cold feet.”
“Rather that than sully your good track record.”
The stirring of all of the “ingredients” receives a puzzled expression.
“You stir a real martini,” Geoffrey informs on his way over to join me behind the bar. “You do not want to bruise the gin.”
“Bond had it wrong then,” Nix lightly chortles.
“We have told you that at least a baker’s dozen times,” my business partner teasingly announces while pretending to garnish the beverage with the twist of lemon peel. “We are going to stop serving you the good shit if you cannot recall the basic wisdom, we have imparted upon you.”
More laughter leaves him which prompts me to lock eyes with Geoffrey. “Tá.”
