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The bar feels stuffy and the music blares louder as Maximillion duels Rooney to enthusiastic cheers.
I grit my teeth, force a smile, and greet more patrons. I’m so swamped, so disillusioned by how the night’s turned out, I don’t even recognize faces that aren’t supposed to look like everybody.
Including the familiar face of a man I had lunch with only a few hours ago.
“Busy?” Kaden asks when I gesture for him to follow me to a table.
I do a double take and then smack a hand to my cheek. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t even…ugh. Tonight’s crazy. As you can tell.”
He glances around the rowdy bar stuffed with a lively audience and equally lively dueling pianists. “Definitely crazy. Between the two of us, I don’t like crowds this big.”
My lips almost quirk into a small smile. “Me neither.”
“Have a seat. Take your break.”
“I wish. But I can’t. Too busy.”
“By law, they’re required to give you a break every four hours,” he recites. His eyes narrow, momentarily losing their kind gleam. “Have they not been giving you your breaks?”
“No. I mean, yes. Well, actually, no. It’s… complicated. Have you ever worked in a bar or restaurant? It usually depends on the crowds.”
But as I pose the question, I know the answer—Kaden’s never worked a minimum wage job a day in his life. Much less at a bar or restaurant on Friday night.
I’m not surehowI know this with such certainty, but Ido. Maybe it’s the model-like pose he naturally strikes when at a standstill—his shoulders masculine and wide but relaxed, like he’s beyond normal stressors, with his hair in easy, loose waves behind his ears, and one hand in the pocket of his well-tailored pants. He wears another white cotton button-up shirt with the top button undone and the sleeves rolled up to his elbow, and though it looks exactly like the perfect, wrinkle-free shirt I saw him in earlier, something tells me this is a different one.
A different shirt of the same exact design.
He probably has a closet full of them. Several of each color. How much does one cost?
Probably my whole paycheck.
“You’re owed a break regardless of how busy it gets,” he says, dodging my question. “Would you like me to speak to your manager? I have a knack for reasoning with people.”
“Erma? No, no, no. Don’t do that. I’m already this close to being fired.” I hold my thumb and forefinger so close together they almost touch. “Anyway, I better get back to the door. A line’s formed again.”
Kaden’s about to protest, though I don’t give him enough of an opening. I return to my station at the door. Once again, I’m in hostess mode, offering the couple at the front of the line an apology for the wait. I’m losing track of specifics and details.
Everyone melts together.
To such a degree it takes me five seconds before recognizing the grungy man standing in front of me is Grady.
He’s got a backward ball cap on and a beard that has tripled in fuzz since the last time I saw him. His shirt looks like something he might’ve run through a food processor—holes puncture the thin fabric, some tiny and others gaping, like the one under his armpit. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he either just rolled out of bed, or just got done smoking.
Possibly both.
“Grady… what are you…?”
“You work here now?” he mumbles, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his jeans.
“Yeah.”
“Since when?”
“A week ago? Who told you?”
“Who was that guy?”
My brows knit. “What… guy?”
