Entering the dimly lit room, you’d never know it was barely noon.
“Tables only if you’re ordering food,” a waitress calls out, passing me with four plates balanced on one arm and the fifth in her left hand.
Damn. I look down at my own arm, fairly certain that it’s not long enough to carry that many plates all at once.
A quick glance is all that’s needed to take in the room, so I turn to head to the bar; keeping my gaze fixed on the bartender who’s assessing me every step of the way.
“You look like a tequila kind of woman,” he says, tossing a coaster with such complete precession that it lands directly in front of where I stop.
“Is that so?” I counter, unable to tap down on the grin his words bring.
“It is. Unfortunately, you aren’t old enough to get served, but I’ve got some homemade root beer you might like.”
“Actually, I’d prefer a job. You don’t happen to have any of those, do you?”
“Are you nineteen?”
“Twenty,” I reply, sticking my hand out to shake his. “I’m Margo Tucker and I was hoping for some bartending work a few days a week.”
“Which one of George’s wives did you come from?” he asks, and I wonder why that’d be relevant.
“His third one. Does it matter?”
“Yeah, your step-uncles used to beat the shit out of me in school. So that’d make you Eli’s daughter, he was a year ahead of me. Heard he settled down in Texas.”
I nod, not bothering to correct him about where I was raised or committing to any information as I keep an easy smile on my face. “I’ve been driving the snowplow, but I could really use some extra cash. Maybe we can do a trial period for a couple of weeks? I just keep my tips and maybe a meal per shift?”
“What do you say, partner?” he asks, finally shifting his eyes over my shoulder and that’s the moment my skin starts to tingle and I know exactly who’s come up to stand behind me. “Is this the bartender we’ve been looking for? Or are you still salty about that tow charge?”
“Son-of-a-bitch,” I accidently say out loud.
“Maybe a little test,” Bull’s deep voice is barely a whisper as he leans down to my ear, his head nearly brushing against mine. “Why don’t you get back there and make me a, hmm, a cosmo.”
There’s a quick flicker in the bartender’s eyes and I realize I never asked him his name.
Walking behind the dark wood bar, I scan the liquors, glasses, and overall set up before looking up at the man who called Bull ‘partner’. “I’m sorry, what’s your name?”
“You can call me Captain. Everyone does,” he says, scooting over when I motion for the shaker.
I fill that with ice, trying not to hum as I pretend to play their little game. Next, I reach for a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black and guestimate what’ll amount to a double shot over the ice. Shaking that, I pour the chilled liquid into a rocks glass and put it in front of him.
“There’s no fucking way you drink cosmos,” I tell him, crossing my arms over my chest when he raises an eyebrow at me.
“But how the hell did you guess Johnnie Walker?” Captain asks me as he mimes a clapping motion with his hands.
“I’m not telling,” I reply in a singsong voice, figuring that I had nailed it.
“Bull?” Captain looks at him, waiting on his say-so.
“Come sit with me,” Bull says to me, tilting his head to indicate a table in the back corner then waiting for me to lead the way.
Letting out a sigh as I feel my small victory slip away from me, I head over to his table.
“What are you doing here?” he asks me without preamble.
“Looking for a job,” I answer with a shrug.
“No, not at the Stumble Inn. Here, in Clear Creek.”
