“Yep.” I don’t stop.
Their voices fade behind me. I push out the door by the kitchen and round the back of the lodge to head toward the pavilion. Staff is already treading back and forth, getting the tables and chairs cleaned and set up. There won’t be any decorations but the big, boring Montana landscape. Stanford thinks it’s good enough to impress his buddies. I think it’s the perfect decor.
Durban would too.
My belly flutters. He’s going to be here soon.
“Hey, Campbell, wait up,” Stanford calls from behind me.
I’m tempted to sprint. I don’t slow. “How can I help you?”
“I need to talk to you about tonight and tomorrow.”
“Okay.” I wave to the sous chef, hoping that’s enough to dissuade Stanford from whatever he wants to say.
“Privately.”
I go rigid and come to a stop twenty yards from my goal. “What’s up?”
He looks around. “Here?”
“I don’t think it’s a good idea for us to be private.”
He has the grace to look chagrined. “I want a different bartender.”
“Excuse me?” Does he think he can ban Durban? It’s Stanford’s wedding, but damn. I’m not a miracle worker. And I need Durban around for my sanity. If I have to stand in my little corner tonight and watch Stanford drink and boast for hours, I’ll lose my shit on the bride and groom so fast.
“Durban Hennessy. He’s not allowed here.”
I bark out a laugh. “Be serious.”
“I am.”
He is. Shit. Stanford is going all alpha male, and it could tank this wedding. I can’t think of me, or he’ll sniff that out. I’ll appeal to the common sense I hope he has. “Do you think bartenders grow on trees?” Maybe that’s not the best tactic. “You hired Foster House to provide a wet bar. Iverson just had a baby and he can’t pull himself away, and the other three have to run the distillery while Durban is here.”
“Then swap him out.”
I cross my arms, trying not to make it such a defensive stance. My anger writhes to get out, and I struggle to contain it. RIP my professionalism. “You want to play dictator with who serves the drinks, you’re going to realize they don’t care, Stanford. You need them. They don’t need you.”
He lifts his chin, the picture of arrogance. “I do not need them.”
“And all the people that January told would be treated to a rustic Montana experience, from the food to the drinks to the people who produce and serve them? What is she going to tell them?”
His expression ripples with displeasure. The cracks are visible. It’s working.
“It’d be embarrassing.” I shrug, like,what can you do?
“I don’t want him serving,” he reiterates.
“What’s the real problem? Does January resent his presence?”
“She said you two were unprofessional yesterday.”
She can suck it. “What did she see?” He cocks a brow, but I continue the stare-down. In the name of irritating him more, I fiddle with the horseshoe charm on my necklace. “What does she think we’re doing?”
He works his jaw back and forth. “You’re fucking him.”
As often as I can. “Say I am. Was it in front of guests?”
