Nina glances over at him, and her throat damn near closes up.
He’s got that young-Sinatra-in-the-back-alley look again, bedroom eyes that could be mistakin' for exhaustion, makin' you wanna feed him, fuck him, or both. Black shirt clingin’, neck damp, hair a mess and overdue for a cut. He's all lean muscle, mouth, and motherfuckin’ manners.
Her bus boy, Andrew fuckin’ Harding—built like a ballad, bites like a bridge. She hates that she notices, and hates even more for what it does to her.
She turns back to her drawer. “Nothin’. Forget about it.”
Dusty’s halfway out the back door, keys jinglin' in his pocket.
“Harding Hour's kickin’ in. Nina needs you bad, bro.”
Andrew adjusts the grip on the crates as he leans in closer to her.
“Whatchu need?”
Nina drops both hands on top of the bar, head snappin' up. “You know what I need? A fuckin’ army. You know what I got? Me, and a bunch of twenty-somethin’s tryna clock out early.”
Andrew smirks, bumpin' his shoulder into hers.
“Relax. I ain’t clockin’ out till you do.”
She tries not to look touched. The kid works as if he’s gotta family of six and forty years worth of debt. “Go home for once. Before I start thinkin’ you live here.”
“Nah, I ain’t leavin’ you with this mess. Don’t worry ‘bout it.”
On the way to the back office, she slaps the top of the crate he's carryin', and the emptiesclanktogether. “Behind the dish pit. And don’t stack ‘em, we don’t need another fuckin’ avalanche.”
At 2:50 AM, the house lights slam on, fluorescents bright and punishing like cop flashlights slicin' through the haze. Beer goggles gone, all around sweaty bodies, fucked-up faces, and the wrong person's hand on your waist.
Mama Said Knock You Outby LL rips through the speakers, killin' the mood and the magic and only means one thing:Get the fuck out.
And by 3:11 AM, the bar’s a ghost town.
It’s just Nina and Harding, the poor bastard flippin’ stools after a ten-hour shift. Oh, and some last-call-leftover leaned overa table, chin in her palm, ass out, watchin’ him while he wipes tables down.
“Okay—but, I’ve been waitin’ all night for a chance to talk to you.” The same tired-ass line they all use once they realize he ain’t gonna chase.
Andrew huffs a half-laugh. “Shit, swear I ain’t even had a second to breathe tonight.” He grabs another stool, flips it, moves on to the next.
Nina’s seen this scene a hundred times, different girl, same track, waitin’ on him to stop movin’ long enough to get a word in. As if 'cause they're still standin' upright at 3 a.m., they get dibs.
“So you’re saying I waited around for nothing?” the girl says, steppin' in closer. “Damn. Break a girl’s heart, why don’t you.”
Andrew wipes down another table, lifts another stool. “Sweetheart, I got a manager two steps from murder and a dish pit stacked to hell.” He finally throws her a glance, then nudges a stool forward with his boot. “You hangin’ around might get me killed. Ain’t tryna die tonight.”
She breathes out a laugh. “You really sending me home with nothing? No number? Nomaybelater? No kiss?”
He snatches the rag off his shoulder, starts wipin’ down the next table. “Gesù...” he mutters, “you want somethin’ to take home that bad, huh?” He grabs a coaster and flings it underhand with a grin. “Here. Got my sweat on it.”
She catches it, drops into her hip, chewing the corner of her lip. “Okay, okay—I get it,” she mutters, takin' another step closer. She plucks a pen from his pocket. “In case you can’t stop thinkin’ about me later.”
She scribbles down her number on the coaster and flips it back at him.
Andrew catches it mid-air.
“Takes one text, I'll drop everything to be yours for the night,” she says.
He laughs, tuckin' it into his back pocket. “Drop everything, huh?” His smile's lazy and lopsided and lingers for half a second. “For some guy you don’t even know.”
