Martin’s Place? It’s not exactly the island of Manhattan. It’s probably only a couple thousand square feet in total, and from his perch behind the bar, Greg has an eagle-eye view of the entire establishment. Which means he’s bombarded with glimpses of Julien’s face—crinkled a bit, but cute—as he takes an order, and Julien’s backside—surprisingly round for how slender he is—as he carries a tray to a table.
When Julien stands at a high-top table near the window in front of two people who appear to be on a first date, Julien’s expression fluctuates wildly from attentive to glazed and far-off. Greg wonders what’s on Julien’s mind. What kinds of thoughts could’ve carved those twin divots in the middle of his brow?
But then Julien looks up and catches his gaze. A locked-and-loaded moment goes by where Greg attempts to read Julien’s thoughts, despite his countenance being impenetrable.Impossible.Greg exhales loudly and gets back to work.
He starts making the handsome, patient man at the bar a Manhattan (oh the irony), and he’s reminded of a darker time in his life. Upon closer inspection, the man has a solid, wide build, a buzzed head, a sharp jaw, and deep-set eyes. Similar to some of the teachers he had as a cadet. Men with gruff demeanors who, starting in grade seven, cared little for niceties and emotion.
Perhaps that’s why he is so taken with Julien.
He stops that thought dead in its tracks and reengages the man at the bar as he serves him his drink. “What are we drinking to tonight?” Greg asks, grabbing a rag and wiping down the nearby counter.
“I’m a pilot. Landed in Allentown today. Back on the Orlando route early tomorrow morning. Decided to treat myself to a cocktail,” the man says with a charming smile. “And some friendly chat, but it seems like that’s not in the cards.”
Greg follows the man’s gaze down the empty bar. Martin’s Place has more of a reputation as a restaurant than a bar, so despite his drinks being a popular order for the diners, he’s been solitary behind this slab of wood, backed by fifty-some-odd bottles of liquor and wine. Though he still doesn’t really touch the wine. He suspects if he tried, Julien would bite his hand off.
But, once again, he’s not supposed to be thinking about Julien, so he says, “I’ve been told I’m a sterling conversationalist.” Greg leans onto the bar, a move he knows shows off his biceps in his black T-shirt with the tight sleeve cuffs. He flashes a cheeky smirk instead of a smile.
“I’m Jeff.”
“Greg.”
“Nice to meet you.”
“You as well,” Greg says, flicking on the charisma. “I’ve never met a pilot before. What’s it like?”
As Jeff discusses the ins and outs of operating an aircraft, Greg works very hard not to be distracted by Julien across the way. He’s not positive, but Julien is potentially wearing the button-down he borrowed last week, the one he sumptuously pleasured himself to the scent of.
Curiously, right now he’s not focused on that particular indiscretion. Instead, he’s fixated on how Julien moves around the tables and bustling diners with directness, turns at right angles and never flags in pace. His gaze is sharp, and his speech is matter-of-fact. If Greg is small-talk incarnate, Julien is a precise soliloquy.
“Why bartending?” Jeff asks.
Greg nods as if he’s still processing all that Jeff just said, when really he wasn’t listening in the slightest. “I kind of fell into bartending. After high school...” Greg never refers to the academy as anything other than high school to avoid the probing questions “...I cut ties with a lot of people and moved to New York City like a lot of dreamers do.”
“Bartending was your dream?” Pilot Jeff asks, almost patronizingly, but Greg wants a good tip, so he doesn’t pay it any mind.
Greg shrugs. “I think the dream was just to become someone in a new city.”
“Someone orsomeone?”
It’s the kind of question only a man your senior could ask you. Greg wants to believe that he moved to New York to be someone who was independent, starting fresh, forgetting the past and the pain. He adopted a sunny demeanor, got into therapy, and tried to make a living as best he could. But would he have started his TikTok account or dated Stryker or gotten himself into debt if he didn’t want to besomeone, too?
“I’m still figuring that out,” Greg says good-naturedly. “But I like mixed drinks, and I like talking to people and making people happy, so this is kind of the perfect storm for me, career-wise.”
“I used to make moonshine back in the day. What’s your favorite drink you’ve ever created?” Pilot Jeff asks.
Greg doesn’t have to think too hard about this one. He immediately lists the ingredients for a limoncello cosmopolitan—he always dreamed of going to the Amalfi Coast where his mother’s family is from and wandering the lemon groves along the shoreline. The cocktail has to be strained into a chilled glass and garnished just so. There’s real artistry to it. Pilot Jeff asks him to write that down so he can make it for himself sometime.
Julien appears suddenly at his side. “Order up.”
Jeez.Greg loses track of Julien for one second, and now he’s invading his space with brusqueness and the intoxicating scent of honeysuckle. “Just a minute.”
A tapping from the floor draws his attention away from the napkin he’s writing on. Is Julien really trying to speed him up with that old trick?
“Why don’t you add your number while you’re at it?” asks Pilot Jeff.
Harmless.Giving out his number is harmless. It’s like giving out a flier for a Broadway show in Times Square. Nine times out of ten it ends up in a trash can or left in a pants pocket and run through the wash. This kind of interaction is surely why he was hired in the first place. So he writes it down.
Pilot Jeff waggles the napkin like it’s a treasure map. “I’ll leave you to it. Keep the change.” He drops a fat wad of cash on the counter and leaves.
