Fixed Costs: a cost that will remain constant regardless of the amount of goods or services produced.
Brooke wasin one hell of a rotten mood.
I knew it the minute she blew into the tavern, all thunder and lightning. I saw it in the scowl permanently twisted across her lips, the stiff line of her shoulders, the joyless chill in her eyes. It was the same way she'd blown out of my house four nights ago.
I cataloged her every movement as she swept across the tavern toward her usual seat at the bar. She worked hard at dodging my gaze, but that wouldn't last long. Once could be forgiven, twice was a mistake, three times was a pattern—and she was here for her third.
Turning away from the territory she'd claimed as her own, I sidled up to Nate. He was running the bar tonight and having a tough go of it. It was barely ten o'clock and we'd wasted more beer on foamy pours than I wanted to price out in my head. My pet project had also forgotten the ingredients to the most basic drinks—gin and tonic, anyone?—and looked damn close to melting down on several occasions, including this one. "How goes it, kid?"
Nate shook his hands at the taps. "Not great," he whispered, mostly to himself. "It's not great."
I glanced between him and the handles. "What's the problem?"
"That's a question I'd really like to answer, but I have no clue why I can't pour more than one beer at a time."
"Then don't pour more than one at a time." I clapped him on the back. "You run the ship, kid. It sails as fast or slow as you want, and these people"—I tipped my head toward the regular crew—"are just happy you're pouring them."
He closed his eyes, pressed the palms of his hands there. "I'm sorry."
"For what?" I asked. "For making some suds? That's nothing."
"For—it's just everything. You gave me a chance and I'm just fucking it up," he replied, still hidden behind his hands.
I turned in a half circle, scanning the bar and tavern. "That isn't reality, Nate. Look around. You have this under control." I elbowed him toward Brooke. "I'll handle these pours. Go get Miss Markham's order."
He dropped his hands to his hips. "Is it still on the house?"
I responded with a quick nod and pushed him in her direction. I didn't want to elaborate on that piece of legislation. It made sense to me in a convoluted way: any woman who shared my bed and consumed my waking thoughts drank for free. But more than that, I didn't want Brooke's money. She had a whole fucking lot of it, more than most people would see in ten lifetimes, and I wasn't prepared to mix that with sex. I didn't even like thinking about it. She didn't like anyone thinking about it either, but she came from old money and found a fuckton of new money for herself in Manhattan. No doubt about that.
Forcing myself to keep my focus away from Brooke, I went to work filling pint glasses. It gave me a moment to sweep a gaze over the corner of the bar closest to the television and gauge Bobbie Lincoln's degree of inebriation. As far as I could tell from beer-wet splotches on his shirt and his inability to simultaneously focus both eyes, he was far beyond his usual state. He seemed to be the only one getting more than foam from Nate's pours.
Lincoln was drunk every night of every week, but it tended toward pleasant, mild drunkenness rather than this evening's version of morose and increasingly hostile. He'd started bitching about sports to anyone who would listen, but the urge to instigate got the best of him and he'd transitioned to divisive political topics. No one was engaging—hell, I wasn't sure they were listening—but that didn't stop him from ramping up the rhetoric.
If I was smart, I'd ring the sheriff or one of his deputies to escort Lincoln home. But my bar hand spooked easily, and calling in the sheriff's deputies was certain to jangle his nerves even more. I didn't want to wash another keg down the drain. Add to those issues the fact I was short-staffed in the kitchen and playing phone tag with both Barry and the marketing coordinator he wanted to hire for the distillery's branding, and every aspect of the project was taking five times longer than planned.
And Brooke was in a ranty, pouty, jerky shoulders, rolling eyes mood. God, I wanted to fuck it right out of her. I would. But not yet. Not until I contained a few issues.
Once I'd cleared the pending beverage orders, I headed into the back room without glancing in Brooke's direction. Ignoring her served two purposes. First, it annoyed the hell out of her and I enjoyed nothing more than turning her screws. And second, I didn't trust myself to get a mouthful of her salty mood and not drag her out of that seat.
Free from the oppressive heat of Brooke's gaze, I fired off text messages to the Cove's innkeeper Rhys Neville, gently begging him to take Lincoln off my hands. When he agreed, I ducked into the kitchen to assess the situation there. The dinner rush was behind us, thank god, but running a kitchen without enough hands on deck was a nightmare. I checked the walk-in fridge for prepped goods, sent messages to suppliers to adjust tomorrow's deliveries, and returned to the back room. I took my time inspecting the kegs, bottled beer, and liquor stored in there.
When I emerged, I made a point of looking out across the dining room—and avoiding the devastatingly irresistible woman seated in her usual spot. I scanned the occupied tables, the patrons seated at the bar, the orders waiting to be fulfilled. I checked on Nate and found him managing a bit better now that he was out of the weeds.
Grabbing the day's inventory list from beside the point of sale system, I headed toward Brooke. I stopped two seats away from her, braced my forearms on the bar while I thumbed through the pages. It was enough distance to make it clear this mood didn't earn her my undivided attention. From the corner of my eye, I saw her fingertips tapping the walls of her glass in a quick, erratic rhythm.
"Here's what you're going to do," I said, flipping to another page. "Go to my house. There's a key under the mat at the back door. Get undressed and wait for me in bed."
"And how long will I be waiting, good sir?"
I lifted a shoulder, let it fall. Continued staring at the pages without seeing. "Until I get there."
"That's not going to happen," she replied. "I'm not going to wait around in your bed—naked—until you're content I've learned some kind of lesson."
"And why would I be teaching you a lesson, Brooke?"
The electricity behind her stare dragged my focus up, away from the inventory. I wished I hadn't surrendered to that pull because even with her forehead creased and a snarl on her lips, she was unreasonably beautiful. It was unfair for one woman to be granted so many gifts and advantages.
"I'm certain you have a reason or twenty-nine." She tossed her platinum hair over her shoulder and I had to draw a breath because the memory of those strands on my skin twisted my gut. "You've never lacked for reasons to resent me, Jed."
