“The three chicks in the corner,” I say to Cohen, signaling toward them. “Let me make their drinks from now on. I might break my no hooking up with customers rule with her.”
The beer he’s filling overflows and spills onto the bar. He quickly jerks the glass away and grabs a towel, and regret pours through me. Telling your boss you plan to sleep with a customer is a stupid move.
Cohen wipes up the mess before saying, “Which unfortunate woman is this?” His face is unreadable, unsure about whether he’s pissed or amused at my statement.
I discreetly point at Lola. “The mouthy, dark-haired one.”
He snorts, snatches a glass, and repours the beer. “Yeah, that hookup won’t be her. I’d choose someone else … or just worry about your job.”
“Why?” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Is she your girl?”
“That’s a big fuck no.” He hands over the beer and cups my shoulder, turning me to face them. “The one on the right is my baby sister, who you by no means want to hook up with. The other two are her best friends.”
Phew. At least Lola isn’t his sister.
I can’t afford to lose this job.
Well, I can, but I don’t want to.
“Shit, sorry, man. I had no idea.”
“As long as it isn’t my sister, I don’t give a shit who you pick up.” He shrugs and signals a give me a sec motion to a customer. “You said the dark-haired girl gave you her number?”
I nod.
“Friendly advice: don’t call her.”
“What? Why?” I scoff. “You in love with her?”
A deep laugh rumbles from his chest. “On second thought, call her. Give it a chance.”
When I peer back over to the three, they’re staring at us. Lola sends me a flirty smile and waves.
“Is this some trick?”
“Nah.” Cohen shakes his head. “Lola’s a good girl … has a great phone voice. Call and ask her out. I think you two would be good together.” He jerks his chin toward the waiting crowd. “Now, get your ass to work.”
I spend the rest of my night pouring beers, mixing endless drinks, and handing out shots. My opportunities to speak to Lola fade, and she leaves before I get the chance.
At least I have her number.
I yawn three times in a row while parking my car in the garage. It took us twenty minutes to get everyone out of the bar, and then cleanup took another hour.
I kill the engine and walk into my house with Lola on my mind, like it strangely has been all night. I’m typically not a man who stresses over a woman. I’d rather cook rice grains one by one than form an emotional attachment with someone. I tried once—the relationship thing, not the rice—and learned my lesson when it ended in disaster.
As I kick off my shoes, I wonder what calling her would be like. I wasn’t the only guy who hit on her tonight. I counted at least five. Five assholes I wanted to sucker punch for doing the same thing I’d done. To get back at them, I overcharged them for their drinks.
It was an asshole move.
Sue me.
Why was I the lucky bastard to score her number?
What made me so goddamn special?
And why do I find her so goddamn special that I’ve been fixated on her since I stepped behind the bar?
Maybe it was her disinterest in me.
That she was immune to my charm.
Calling Lola might be stupid, it might kick me in the ass later, but I hope it’ll be worth it.
A result of working all night is sleeping all day.
My parents didn’t raise me on the belief of a typical nine-to-five workday. I was taught to work every minute of every day. If you weren’t working, you were lazy. My father, Grady Malone, was a workaholic who expected the same from me. I grew up envisioning that as my future, but that mindset changed when disaster hit.
Now, I bartend a few nights a week and host club parties. That provides enough money not to have a life wrapped around working a job I hate.
I open the French doors that lead out to my patio, relax on an outdoor lounge chair, and kick up my feet before calling Lola.
It rings four times.
My back straightens when a deep, masculine voice answers.
The fuck?
Is this her dad?
Brother? Boyfriend?
“Is”—I scratch my head—“Lola there?”
It’s like I’m twelve and calling a chick’s house phone before cell phones were a thing.
“Motherfucker,” the guy hisses into the phone. “She did it again!”
“Uh … did what?”
He blows out a ragged breath. “I’m Callum, Lola’s ex. She thinks it’s funny to give my number to the men who ask for hers. It’s her revenge, reminding me it was a mistake to cheat on her.”
Well played, Name Swapper.
Little does she know, her little trick only makes me want her more.
I walk into the bar, grab a dirty rag, and sling it at Cohen. “You’re an asshole.”
The towel lands on his shoulder, and he flicks it off, watching it fall onto the linoleum floor.
“You called her, didn’t you?”
“I called someone who sure as fuck wasn’t Lola.” I mock his voice and mimic his stance from the other night. “Lola’s a good girl … has a great phone voice. Call and ask her out.”
“You brought it on yourself, man.”
“How? For asking for her number?”
“For being an idiot. Did you honestly think a smart-ass like her would hand over her number that easily?”
I didn’t, but I allowed my ego to get in the way and tell me it was my charm that had sealed the deal.
“When is she coming in again?”
“That’s none of your business.”
I rub at my tired eyes. “As an employee, I should know who’s visiting this establishment.”
“As your boss, I think you should worry about being an employee and less about weekend hookups.”
Our conversation stops when the door opens. It’s only three o’clock, so the lunch rush is gone, and the dinner rush hasn’t arrived yet.
The door slams shut behind Finn, the bar’s bouncer, and he strolls toward us.
“Silas! My dude!” He circles behind the bar and slaps Cohen on the back while keeping his attention on me. “Barbecue tomorrow at Cohen’s place. It’s his birthday, so don’t forget his gift.”
Cohen frowns at the word birthday. “I don’t want gifts.”
As a single father, Cohen prefers to do everything himself and never asks for favors. I once offered him and his son free baseball tickets to a game I couldn’t attend. He wouldn’t take the tickets until I accepted money for them.
“I’ll be sure to get you a shitty present for the terrible advice you gave me,” I tell Cohen.
Finn shakes his head. “Nah, get him a Pornhub gift card. The dude doesn’t get laid much, so he needs good content for his spank bank.”
I raise a brow. “They sell Pornhub gift cards?”
Cohen smacks the back of Finn’s head, and he winces. “You’re uninvited, fucker.”
I’ve heard of Cohen’s barbecues before, but I haven’t attended one. I’ve always been good at keeping a distance from others.