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I sit on the stool beside hers and take a grateful sip. “I think Mark might be drinking during his shifts.”
She swirls her wineglass and brings it to her nose for a sniff. “Has that been an issue in the past?”
“At times. He started slacking off last fall, coming in late. Got heavy-handed with the salt and sometimes forgot to place orders. But he was one of Aunt Becca’s first hires. She always went on about how much she loved him. I talked to him back then, and he sorted himself out, but he’s been coming in a bit late again. I don’t know, could be nothing.”
“Or it could be something. I’ll keep on eye on him and let you know if anything seems off. And what do you think about offering a rose-petal-infused gin cocktail for the summer? I’d like to experiment with some ideas.”
Of course she would. “You’re good at this, you know.”
She slants me a look. “At what?”
“Bartending and dealing with people. Creative thinking and talking me off the ledge when our fridge breaks and we have to haul ice from the basement until we can get it fixed.”
Today’s super-fun bar drama.
She shrugs like she’s not affected by my compliment—typical stoic Larkin—but her cheeks pink. “It’s in my blood.”
“Your family was in the bar business?”
A shadow crosses her eyes. “Sort of. So, the rose gin drink—you’re in?”
“I’m in,” I say, following her change-of-topic lead. Family is a subject she refuses to discuss.
“Awesome. We could launch it during a lunch with live music. Try to bring in more of a day crowd since it’s been kind of slow.”
I make a noncommittal sound. “Aunt Becca preferred keeping lunch low-key. Wanted it to be a place where people could come for quiet conversation during the day.”
Larkin taps her fingers on the bar, studying my profile in a way that has me feeling exposed. “You don’t seem happy with the bar.”
“I’m happy,” I say automatically. It’s the proper response and not a full lie. I don’t hate work. There are elements I enjoy, and I don’t feel right discussing my frustrations with a staff member, no matter how close Larkin and I have become. “This place was my aunt’s vision,” I add. “Her baby. She wanted it run a certain way. It’s important to me to live up to her expectations, even if it’s not as busy as it was.”
“But sometimes you need to change with the times. Give the place a boost.”
“There’s been a bit of a downturn,” I agree. “And I’ve had ideas on how to revamp things.” Renovating the kitchen by bringing it into the bar area, letting people watch food preparation, maybe hold cooking classes. Minimize deep-fried items. Introduce ethnic flavors.
Then I think about my one entrepreneurial effort—tasty meals for the elderly. How excited I was about the venture. How hard I worked at it. How hard that business tanked, sinking my savings and my dreams. With my track record, changing the bar could end in bankruptcy and killing Aunt Becca’s legacy.
“It’s daunting when all the pressure is on me,” I say, talking around the subject. “There’s risk with change, and nights have been steady enough. Plus, I don’t have the time to plan and implement new stuff. I’m okay with how things are running.”
Her lips turn down, but she nods. “If you ever want to bounce ideas around, just let me know.”
“Ifyouever want to gush about the guys you’re dating, just let me know.” I nudge her elbow and wink. Prodding Larkin is way more entertaining than discussing my bar stress.
She rolls her eyes. “When will you quit pestering me about dating?”
“When you start dating.”
She huffs out a sigh, then perks up. “How about this.” She faces me, looking smug. “I’ll start dating when you admit you like Cal.”
I nearly snort out my sip of wine and turn away, reaching for a napkin. A lame attempt to hide my likely panicked expression.
This isn’t the first time Larkin has asked me about Cal. Or the eighth. Every time he comes up, because Imaybebring him up more than I should—how nice it is that he’s letting me crash in his spare room, the fun soccer game we played together, how easily he moved around his kitchen that one night he cooked for me, the dinner I made him before today’s shift—she gets this smug look and launches another you-like-Cal bomb.
I prepare to offer my usualwe’re just friendsretort, but a knot forms in my throat. My nose stings the way it does when I get upset.
Every night, I stare at Cal’s closed door for a moment and feel a jab of pain. The hot, breath-stealing kind. I swear it’s getting worse, not better, along with my guilt for pining after Jake’s brother. All these uncomfortable feelings seem to be building to a sharp point that will soon slice me in half.
“Yes,” I whisper to the bar top. The shaky word falls out in a whoosh. I turn to Larkin, needing to purge more of it. All of it. “I have feelings for Cal, but he doesn’t feel the same.”
