“When you’re slow on the drinks, it cuts into our tips.”
Morgan added an orange slice and cherry to a whiskey sour while she filled a pilsner from the tap.
“Are you getting complaints on the service?”
“Not yet.”
Maintaining pleasant, she poured a glass of Merlot, completed a traditional sidecar. “Let me know when you do.”
“Don worked faster.” With that, Opal hustled off with her drinks.
Couldn’t win them all over, at least not all at once, Morgan reminded herself. But if that kept up much longer, she’d try a one-on-one.
She filled another table order—no bitching about her speed on this one—served bar snacks and drinks to the stools. Flirted harmlessly with Keith and Martin because they liked it, before she cashed them out around midnight.
From the corner of her eye she saw a man slide onto a stool at the end of the bar. Looked like a solo, she thought as he scrolled on his phone, and she worked her way down to him.
“Good evening. What can I get for you?”
“Glass of Cab,” he said without looking up.
She got a red wineglass. Loner, she decided. Conversation not required. Despite the flannel shirt and jeans, the mass of dense brown hair falling over the shirt’s collar, something about him said “suit.”
She set the wine in front of him. “If you’d like anything from the kitchen, they’re closing in about ten minutes.”
Head down, thumbs busily writing a text, he shook his head.
She left him alone with his wine and his phone.
Thirty minutes later, when tables started to thin out and nightcappers wandered in, he was still there, end of the bar, working on his phone, half the pour still in his glass.
Minutes before last call, a group of three men came in. Early forties, she judged, and they’d unquestionably enjoyed any number of drinks already.
Laughing uproariously, they plopped down at the bar. The one in the middle shot a finger at her. “You’re new. I’ve been here three times before, and you were a man. Six months ago—was it six months?—six months ago, you were a man.”
“You’re half right. I’m new.”
He gave her a thoroughly drunken smile. “You’re a whole lot prettier now.”
“Thank you. What can I get you?”
He leaned forward, grinned. “Guess.”
“I guess if you’re not staying at the resort, I’m getting you an Uber.”
He blinked at her while he processed, then slapped the bar and laughed. “An Uber,” he repeated while his companions joined the hilarity. “What’s in an Uber?”
All smiles, she leaned forward to meet his glassy eyes. “You and your friends unless you’re staying at the resort.”
“We got us the presi-fucking-dential on the Club Level.” Since he said it with pride rather than temper, pulled out his key card to wave around, she kept smiling.
“I hear it’s fabulous. What are you celebrating?”
“My divorce. I’m a free man!” He tossed out his arms, clocked both of his friends, who found more hilarity. “How about you come on up and celebrate with me, cutie?”
“Oh, that’s tempting, but how about I serve you your last drink of the night?”
“Aw. We’re drinking boilermakers like men, in solidarity.”
“You got it.”
“She tried to emasculinate me,” he claimed, while Morgan began to mix the drinks.
“Since you’re drinking boilermakers like men, she didn’t succeed.”
“Gave her twelve years.” His companions patted his shoulder on either side, and dug into the almonds she set out.
“Here’s to the next twelve.” She set the boilermakers on the bar. “Drinks are on me.”
“Aw. You know, cutie, if I’d been married to you, I’d still be married.”
“That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me all night. Enjoy.”
She handled the rest of the stragglers and nightcappers before moving down to the loner at the end of the bar.
“Last call. Would you like another Cab?”
“Ice water, still.” Then he looked up. “You handled that well.”
She went blank. His eyes were tiger eyes, tawny, focused, a little fierce. For an instant that’s all she saw. Then the rest pushed through.
The sharply defined planes and angles, the take-a-punch line of the jaw. Add forty-five, fifty years, change the eyes to blue, he’d be his grandfather.
“Thank you, Mr. Jameson.”