one
I loved my job.
Loved it.
I loved the people I worked with—almost without exception.
I loved the building. And the atmosphere. The nightlife. The drinks we slung. The food we served. The way we offered something unique and fun for the city I loved too.
I loved the managerial side of food service, which was a rare opinion in this usually difficult industry.
In fact, I loved every single thing about my work life except for one tiny, infinitesimal aspect: Charlie English.
Charlie English, the bane of my existence.
Sure, usually banes weren’t quite so good-looking. Or funny. Or charming in that way that always got him out of trouble.
But nevertheless, a bane he was.
In fact, I hadn’t even truly understood the torturous depths of that phrase until I met Charlie. It was like the definition exploded into existence with that man. I had thus survived without being fully familiar with any bane in my life. Then suddenly, there was Charlie, and it was all bane all the time.
Take right now, for example. We were supposed to be setting up for tonight’s service. There were glasses to wash—which his OCD ass was usually all over. And menus to wipe down. And bar accoutrements to slice, dice, and organize. But where was Charlie?
Leaned over the bar, coaxing the new server into trying his signature shot of the night that he’d supposedly made up on a fucking whim and planned to offer on special.
It was basically a lemon drop with lime vodka instead of plain. He was calling it a Sexy 7 Up. It was so far from revolutionary I could have screamed. But the new server—who I could immediately tell was already out of her depth—was under the delusional impression he was the Picasso of bartenders.
I rolled my eyes and resisted the urge to throw a menu at his head.
“Excuse me,” I said instead, my clipboard of daily tasks held in a way that stabbed me in the kidneys. I maintained my air of professionalism. And shifted the clipboard a little to the left. “I need Ally rolling silverware, not taking shots before we open.”
Ally’s face flushed tomato red, and she backed away from the bar slowly. I could be an absolute terrorist when it came to keeping this place from tipping over the precarious cliff edge it always seemed to teeter on. She was right to be terrified of me. Maybe she was smarter than I gave her credit for.
Charlie rolled to his side so smoothly I would have thought it was choreographed if I didn’t know him. It wasn’t practiced. His charm, unfortunately, was entirely natural. He faced me, seemingly unbothered by Ally’s retreat, and rested on his elbow. “Ada,” he said, grinning. “Nowyouhave to take it with me since you scared away my drinking buddy.”
Drinking buddy? I plastered on a smile and lowered my voice to a subtle hiss. “If you sleep with that poor unsuspecting woman, please know I will give her the name of a lawyer highly recommended for sexual harassment in the workplace. Okay?”
Charlie’s smile faltered, and his eyes flashed with annoyance. “I just want feedback, Ada. I’m not planning on giving her a roofie, for fuck’s sake.”
I didn’t mention that he didn’t need to roofie her in order to sleep with her. She was already caught in his trap. All he had to do was flutter his too-thick lashes, give her those green puppy-dog eyes, and lift half his mouth in a wicked smirk that promised trouble. Girls were too easily seduced by his easygoing manner and penchant for mischief.
It was a lie, though.
Well, maybe not the mischief part but definitely the easygoing part. Charlie English was the furthest thing from easygoing. In truth, he was uptight, paranoid, and vindictive when he wanted to be.
“I’m just saying, we can’t afford to lose any more because you and your brother decide to sleep with them.”
He frowned. “Will is marrying the one he slept with. It’s not the same thing.”
“Then what’s your excuse?”
His eyes narrowed further. All right, maybe I’d gone a touch too far. I pressed my lips together, trying to ignore the surge of guilt for an unwarranted attack. He hated when I was mean for no reason. Could I blame him?
He took it on the chin when he felt like my wrath was deserved, but unmerited sass was high up his list of pet peeves. From his perspective, he’d only spoken with one of the servers and created a fun drink for this evening—both were well within his job description.
From my perspective, he was messing with the entire Craft ecosystem and was as likely to shut this place down with bad reviews due to “lack of quality service” than he was selling a record number of Sexy 7 Ups and saving Craft from some ambiguous financial ruin nobody knew about.
But instead of calling me on my bullshit, he nudged the full shot glass over with his forefinger and held my gaze in a silent dare. Liquid sloshed back and forth in the tiny glass, but somehow managed to keep from splashing over the side. “Here, you try it then. I need your approval anyway, boss. And besides, I think you could use some help calming down.”
