CHAPTER 1
DEVON
THE ESPRESSO MACHINE has a fucking agenda against me, and I'm not being dramatic.
Okay, I'm always dramatic, but this time it's justified. Foam is erupting from this demonic contraption like a caffeinated Vesuvius, coating my face, my hair, and somehow traveling down my shirt to places foam has no business being.
"Okay, so maybe don't press that button," Kayla says, and I can hear the laugh she's trying to suppress. She's been training me for exactly forty-seven minutes and she's alreadydonewith me.
"Which button?" I gesture wildly at the control panel. "There are seven thousand buttons on this thing. Who needs seven thousand buttons to make coffee? It's literally hot bean water."
Hunter, the other bartender who's supposed to be helping train me but is instead losing his shit by the liquor shelf, wipes his eyes. "Kayla, I think we broke him already."
"I'm not broken." I swipe foam off my face with as much dignity as I can muster, which is zero. "This is fine. I've always wanted to look like I lost a fight with a rabid dog."
Kayla takes pity on me, bless her, and actually shows me the correct way to steam milk. She's patient about it too, demonstrating slowly while I watch like I'm studying for the SATs.
I pull out my phone and start taking notes.
Hunter notices. "You know you can just ask us if you forget, right?"
"Bold of you to assume I'll remember there's someone to ask."
I'm trying so damn hard. But bartending, as it turns out, is not as easy as it looks in movies where hot people casually flip bottles while having deep conversations about life.
"Okay," Kayla says, patting the espresso machine like it's a feral cat that might attack again. "Let's try something simpler. Can you stock the beer fridge?"
"I can absolutely stock the beer fridge." Finally, a task I can't fuck up. It's just putting bottles in a cold box. Even I can manage that.
Spoiler alert: I cannot.
Twenty minutes later, I've organized the beer fridge by color because apparently I'm a toddler with crayons, and both Kayla and Hunter are staring at me like I've performed dark magic.
"Why," Hunter says slowly, "are all the light beers together?"
"Because they're the same color?"
"We usually organize by brewery," Kayla explains, very gently, like she's talking to someone who's recently suffered a head injury. "The distributors need them organized by—you know what, never mind. This is fine. This is...creative."
"I am an artist," I say, because committing to the bit is all I have left.
By 6 PM, I've only broken two glasses, which Kayla assures me is actually pretty good for a first day. I've also made approximately fifteen drinks, twelve of which were probably wrong, but no one's died yet, so I'm calling it a win.
A man walks up—older guy, kind face, looks like he tips well—and orders a Cosmo.
I make something that looks vaguely radioactive.
He takes a sip. Blinks. Takes another sip, slower this time, like he's trying to identify what fresh hell he's just put in his mouth. "What the fuck is in this?"
"Honestly? I don't remember. I blacked out somewhere between the vodka and the regret."
He considers this. Takes another sip. "It's terrible."
"I know."
"I'll have another."
I'm starting to feel confident. Maybe Icando this. Maybe bartending isn't rocket science. Maybe I'm a natural and just needed to find my rhythm.
