Campbell’s forced smile falters. “It’s a family dinner. There are no seating assignments.”
“It’s a formal dinner,” Stanford’s mom complains. “There are always seating assignments at formal dinners.”
Campbell barely misses a beat. “Of course. The couple will sit at the head of the table, naturally.”
I really need Campbell to be able to tell them off.
Stanford’s dad ignores the seating assignments and bellies up to the bar. “Macallan. Neat.”
“We only serve Foster House,” I say in a bored tone. I’m not kissing this guy’s ass.
“Why would I want Foster House?”
His snide tone roughs up my eardrums and my pride. I hold his gaze. I’m not playing games either.
Our face-off is interrupted by a cloud of huckleberries. “Is there something I can get you, Mr. Baldwin?”
“Damn good whiskey,” he replies.
“You are invited to sample what Foster House offers. Your son and future daughter-in-law’s wishes are to feature local spirits, and Foster House is the pride of Huckleberry Springs.” She aims that fake-as-astroturf smile at me. “Durban, do you have that barrel proof available, or one like it? I believe that’s right up a whiskey connoisseur’s alley.”
The man’s frown deepens like he can’t tell if he should keep complaining or take the flattery. “Fine. I’ll take the best you’ve got.”
Admiration sneaks in as I pour the drink, but so does worry. Campbell appears to effortlessly defuse the situation, but it’s costing her. She has a little over three weeks of festivities. I’m not involved again until the bride’s lunch, but she’s got to entertain the douche crew for weeks.
While everyone’s either taking their seats or giving me their order, I catch Sydney giving Campbell’s hand a squeeze. They exchange tight smiles. At least she’s got an ally in the group, but Sydney seems like she’s in the same rickety boat as Campbell.
I serve drinks until only one more person stands in front of me. Stanford’s mother. She huffs. “I can’t believe we have to gotothe bar to get our refreshments. That’s not how dinners work.”
“What can I get you?” I ask mildly.
“Decent service, but I can’t imagine you know what I’m talking about.”
Does my expression say that I’m sick of people’s shit? “What can I get you?”
She rolls her eyes like my lack of engagement spoils the fun. “Gin and tonic.”
I make it quick and slide it in front of her. Sooner she’s gone, the better.
“Campbell, dear.” This comes from the woman with the bob. She must be January’s mom. “We’re missing a seat. Aren’t you joining us?”
January puts her hand on Stanford’s chest, her gaze distraught. He shakes his head.
“I’m on the clock,” Campbell says smoothly. “I want to make sure this night is perfect for all of you.”
Fuck, I could choke on all this pretend kindness. Since everyone’s seated and they all have a cocktail or a drink, I duck into the long storeroom-slash-break room behind the bar the staff uses.
Is Natalie like Stanford’s mom? Was I that wrong about her? About us? Shame leaves a bad taste in my mouth.
I’m surrounded by the inventory of the Hawthorne bar. All I need is a swig to take the edge off my irritation. I open a new bottle of Foster House whiskey and take a long pull from it. I’ll buy it later.
Spice and heat fill my mouth. I swallow and it spreads down my chest, warming my gut.
“Fuck me sideways until Sunday,” Campbell says from behind me.
I turn to find Campbell slumped against the wall by the light switch. “They’re that bad.”
She jumps and slaps a hand over her mouth. She drops it. “You can’t keep scaring me like that,” she whispers loudly. “What are you doing in here with the lights off?”
