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“We’ll have a line around the block of people trying to go home with you.”
“Oh, no, what a shame.” I smirk, not even pretending to be sad about that. “Aren't you the one who told me that all publicity is good publicity?”
“That was before they put me on that damn Annual Hottest Bachelors countdown list,” Austin grumbles, scratching his buzzcut. “Now I can’t have a drink in peace without girls interrupting. You know some of them have made a game out of it? Points for every one they bag.”
Dash snorts with laughter. “Must be hard, being adored.”
“You’re just pissed they left you off this year,” Austin shoots back.
“Hey! I’m always happy to give you guys a shot,” Dash says, chuckling. “After ten years at the top, it needs some new blood.”
I shake my head, smiling as they shoot the shit. I’ve known these guys since college, and it was always a dream back then to run some kind of business together. Mavericks was inspired by all-out dorm-room hangouts, just kicking back, relaxing, and hosting the best parties around. We all brought our expertise to opening the bar, and now we’ve been up and running for a year, it’s clear, taking the bet has paid off.
Big time. Which is why we’re already planning our next venue.
I look around, proud. The space is airy and intentionally unpolished—comfortable leather booths, exposed pipes and brick, some historic wrought iron that our construction expect, Flynn, salvaged along the way. But sometimes, I still feel like an eighteen-year-old kid, giddy in a too-small city dorm. Back then, we drank shitty beer. None of us but Dash had any money. Life’s different now, but here, the pulse of it is the same.
“So, what’s the agenda?” Dash asks me, half teasing. “And who’s taking minutes today?”
I laugh. “Volunteering?”
“Uh, no thanks. You know I’m more the silent partner.”
Flynn saunters in, carrying pizza boxes and wearing his trademark flannel shirt and unkempt beard. “Sorry I’m late,” he mumbles. “I had, uh, business to attend to.”
We all exchange a look. “What’s her name?” Austin asks.
Flynn just glares, collapsing in the booth. “I don’t kiss and tell.” He opens a box and pushes it to the middle of the table. “Pepperoni?”
“It’s nine a.m.” Austin winces at the sight of the gooey, greasy food.
“Not all of us are a finely tuned health machine like you.” Flynn shoves a slice in his mouth.
“Better watch it,” Dash cracks. “The ladies won’t love you with a gut.”
“Sure they will,” Flynn finally grins. “Haven’t you heard? Dad bods are in.”
We all laugh, and I pull my files closer. “OK, OK, we should get this meeting started.”
“Where’s Seb?” Austin asks.
“He’s still travelling,” I explain. The fifth member of our motley crew, Sebastian, is our high-end liquor connection, and spends half the year overseas.
“Poor Seb and his hard life,” Flynn says through a mouthful of pizza. “Let me guess, checking out some vineyard somewhere?”
“A tequila farm. And a tequila farmer’s daughter, last I heard.”
“Sounds about right. So, what’s the latest?” Flynn asks me, and I get my CEO mode on. We’re all equal investors and partners in the bar, but I’m the one who handles day-to-day operations, while they take a backseat and contribute in other ways:
Dash is the money (thanks to his trust fund), Austin brings in buzzy clientele, Flynn handles design and construction, and Sebastian sources all our liquor and curates a killer cocktail list.
Together, we can’t be beat.
“So, Mavericks is performing great,” I say, passing out the latest accounts. “Sales are up, buzz is great, and as well as this feature, we’re due to be listed in anArchitectural Digestroundup, highlighting the build.”
“Damn right, we are.” Flynn runs a hand over the tabletop. “You ever just look around at the woodwork in this place and just think…God, Flynn’s good at his job.”
Austin snorts. “You got us. Always thinkin’ about you touchin’ your wood.”
