The man looks up, breathes a sigh of relief. “Thanks. I hope so.”
I return to Owen, who’s knocking back the Tom Collins I whipped up for him when he arrived ten minutes ago.
“My pie will be as good as that cocktail you’re devouring,” I state.
“I’ll see your Tom Collins, but I’m going to raise you on the pie challenge. I bet you’re bluffing. I have a hunch you can’t make a decent pie, River, especially if you’re thinking of putting gin in it,” he challenges.
“You doubt me? That just makes me want to bake it and invite you to Thanksgiving at Mama Michaels’s house to prove you’re wrong about my gin-pie-baking skills.”
Owen laughs, tossing his head back. “You really do think you’re good at everything, don’t you?”
“Think so? I know so,” I say, then quickly scan the establishment I own. My servers are tending to customers, another bartender is quenching the thirst of most of the patrons here at the counter, and everyone seems happy right now. Good thing, since that means I can indulge in one of my favorite pastimes—chatting with Owen.
“Then, I can’t wait to try this Kitchen Sink Pie and say I told you so. Also, why are you acting like you aren’t going to invite me to your parents’ house on Thanksgiving? You’ve invited me to every Turkey Day since you moved back to San Francisco.”
I groan. “But you were with Ezra last year, and you didn’t come.”
Owen shoots me a sharp stare. “Yes, and it’s not like I had the best time getting almost dumped by him in Napa, then getting officially dumped over Christmas in Las Vegas. We are, to quote Ms. Swift, ‘We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together.’”
“Hallelujah! He was the worst.”
“Tell me about it. He wouldn’t go with me to Friendsgiving last year. Should have been my tip-off,” Owen says, shaking his head.
I don’t want to say I told you so out loud so I say it in my head. “His loss. Your Friendsgiving always sounds like so much fun,” I say, since he’s told me tales of his work friends and their festive weekend-before-Thanksgiving celebrations in Tahoe. His friend Nisha and her wife, Hailey, throw fantastic fetes—I tagged along with Owen earlier this year to a work shindig when Nisha’s cruelty-free shampoo company launched its new line, and not only were the cocktails fabulous, but so was the shampoo I took home. I’m about to ask him if he’s going this year when two tall, strapping baseball gods stroll into the joint.
They’re also some of my closest friends. Grant is the catcher for the San Francisco Cougars, and his boyfriend, Declan, is the shortstop for the San Francisco Dragons. Grant’s my business partner too, and together we own all ten locations of The Lazy Hammock in California, Oregon, Arizona, and Washington, since we expanded this line of gay bars over the last few years from Phoenix all along the West Coast.
“What sounds like fun?” Grant asks with a curious glint in his blue eyes as he ambles up to the bar.
“Friendsgiving,” I say, tipping my forehead to my bespectacled best friend. “Owen and his armada of PR peeps do it every year, and supposedly it’s the—”
What?
Are those what I think they are?
I sputter, pointing at the matching rings Grant and Declan sport. “Did you guys get engaged on your vacation?” My voice shoots to the ceiling.
They grin like only the grotesquely in love can.
“Congratulations, you lucky fuckers,” I say, beaming as I offer each a palm to high-five.
Owen joins in, and there are fist bumps and high-fives all around.
Once the local idols sit, I do the requisite gawk at the platinum bands, then ooh and aah. Truly, I’m over the moon for them. Especially Grant. This guy has been a good friend for more than five years, and I’ve seen him through all the highs and lows of his epic love affair with another pro-baller.
As I mix cocktails for some other customers, my heart does a happy dance while my friends tell the story of their tropical proposal. “Question—could you two be any more disgustingly in love?” I shoot a glance at my college bud. “Could they, Owen?”
“Their love story should be a Webflix series, and I bet it’d be bigger than that regency London show,” Owen quips, as he lifts his drink in a toast.
“I bet you’d like it more than Discovery Prism,” I add in a nod to Owen’s fave series.
“All I know is I’d watch the hell out of it,” Grant weighs in as I swing to the other end of the bar to serve mojitos to a couple of tatted guys in motorcycle jackets making googly eyes at each other.
Next to them, a Latino guy with buff arms and pearly whites laughs with the Asian dude.
Told you so, I mouth, and the guy with the Negroni flashes me a grateful smile.
I love my job. I love watching guys connect with other guys. Sometimes, hell, most of the time the dudes just hook up and that’s great, since sex is, well, great. But plenty of men have returned here, all coupled up and getting hitched, to tell me they met at The Lazy Hammock.
Warms my jaded heart.
I return to my friends, asking Grant and Declan if they want iced tea and Diet Coke, and then I grab glasses when they give me their orders. “Now listen, it’s high time the two of you jocks admit the truth. I’m your Cupid. Am I right?”
Declan laughs, his brown eyes twinkling with delight. “At this point, feel free to claim us.”
“You’re taking credit for their union, River?” Owen challenges with a lift of his brow.
“I’m the patron saint of hot pro-baseball players in love,” I say.
“But are you Cupid the Greek god, or cupid the cherub?” Owen counters, since he loves to rib me.
“Do I look like a cute Valentine’s baby who shoots arrows at couples?” I square my shoulders and deepen my tone, as I pour an iced tea. “Or a Mediterranean heartthrob?”
Owen knits his brow. “Do you really want me to answer that?”
“There is only one answer,” I say, sliding the glass to Declan.
“C’mon, O. River’s gotta be Eros, aka Cupid,” Grant chimes in since he loves mythology. “Doesn’t he seem like the Greek God of Love, who struck the hearts of his targets till they swooned with passion?”
I tap my chest, nodding big and long. “Like a hot Greek god, I shot my arrows at Grant Blackwood and Declan Steele, once upon a time. Call me Eros from now on.”
“Fine, Eros,” Owen says, dragging out the name like it has ten syllables. “What role exactly did you play in the happy couple getting together?”
I mime zipping my lips. Owen’s the PR guy on Declan’s baseball team, and it’s up to these two athletes what they share. But these guys did indulge in a few secret dates back at my bar in Phoenix at Grant’s first spring training years ago.
“You’re the worst at sharing anything,” Owen says, huffing as I pour a Diet Coke for Grant.
“I know. I’m terrible, and you hate spending time with me,” I say, then flash a smile at the pair of fiancés. “Seriously, I am so happy for you two, but let’s talk about me for a second, please.”
“By all means,” Declan says, sweeping out his arm to indicate the floor is mine.