Chapter 1
Finn
The woman in the flamingo hat wanted a mojito.
She arrived ten minutes ago in a white Mercedes SUV that cost more than I’d make in two years, parked in the handicapped spot despite her windshield’s obvious lack of placard, and marched into Riley’s Tap & Table like she owned the place. Everything about her screamed money—the designer sunglasses perched on her head, the diamond tennis bracelet that caught the light every time she gestured, and the not-so-subtle work she’d had done that made her age impossible to guess. Forty? Fifty?
She spent her first five minutes complaining about the temperature (too cold), the music (too loud), and the fact that we didn’t have a specific vodka brand she never actually named.
Now she wanted a mojito.
This wouldn’t have been a problem at a bar thatgave a shit about cocktails, but at Riley’s—sorry, The New Riley’s Tap & Table, as corporate insisted we call it after the reboot—we had three fresh herb options:
None, zilch, and not happening.
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” I said, pulling out my service smile, the one that made my cheeks ache after hour three. “We don’t have fresh mint available, but I can make you a mojito with our house mix. It’s got a nice—”
“Fresh mint is the entire point of a mojito.” She said it like I was dim, like I somehow missed the fundamental concept of the drink I’d been making for years. Her manicured nail tapped against the bar top. “What kind of establishment doesn’t stock fresh herbs?”
The kind owned by a corporation that figured out customers will drink anything as long as it’s cheap and comes fast, I thought.
“I understand,” I said, keeping my voice level and professional. “Unfortunately, our suppliers don’t include fresh herbs in our regular inventory, but I promise our house mix makes a solid mojito. I can add extra lime if you’d—”
“This is ridiculous.” She looked around the bar like she was searching for someone more competent, more worth her time. “I want to speak to yourmanager.”
Of course, she did.
I spotted Brad hovering near the kitchen, probably checking his phone instead of actually managing. Brad was twenty-one, had never worked a service job before landing this one through his uncle’s connections, and had somehow gotten promoted over me despite the fact that I’d been bartending since he was in high school.
Brad, the guy who called customers “guests” with a straight face.
Brad, the guy who had once written me up for “not smiling enough” while I was actively smiling.
“Brad?” I called. “Got a customer who’d like to speak with you.”
He hustled over, already shifting into his customer service persona. “Good afternoon! I’m Brad, the assistant manager. What seems to be the trouble?”
“Yourbartender”—she spat it like it was a dirty word—“was rude when I asked for a simple mojito. I don’t appreciate being talked down to by the help.”
The help.
She actually said, “the help.”
I felt my smile freeze in place. I hadn’t been rude. I’d been nothing but professional while she’d implied I was incompetent for working at a bar thatdidn’t stock fresh mint, but Brad didn’t look at me to verify the story. He just nodded along, his expression sympathetic.
“I apologize for any inconvenience, ma’am,” Brad said, smooth as silk. Then he turned to me withthatlook—the one that said I was about to take the fall for corporate’s shitty supply chain decisions. “Finn, why don’t you make this lovely guest a mojito with fresh mint?”
I blinked. “We don’t have fresh mint.”
“Check the walk-in.”
“I did inventory this morning. We don’t—”
“Check the walk-in,” Brad repeated, his smile never wavering but his eyes promising retribution if I argued further.
Fine. Whatever.
I headed to the walk-in cooler, knowing full well there was no fresh mint in there because I’d literally done inventory six hours ago. I made a show of looking around, moving containers, checking behind the prep trays. Nothing.
