“I don’t have anything to do. Everything’s ready.”
“Then go reorganize the liquor bottles by height or count the ice cubes or something. Just stop hovering.”
I was being dismissed from my own kitchen in my own bar.
I went back to the floor and stared at the liquor bottles. They were already organized. Alphabetically. By type. Mark had done it last week, and it was perfect.
I checked my phone. 9:52 a.m.
This was torture.
A knock on the front door made me jump.
I looked up to find three guys standing outside, peering through the glass. They looked to be in their early twenties, maybe. One was wearing a Lightning jersey, another had a Bolts cap, and the third was just smiling and waving like a friendly golden retriever.
People.
There were actual people.
At 9:52 in the morning.
I walked over and unlocked the door. “Hey, sorry, we don’t open until noon—”
“We know!” Lightning Jersey said, his enthusiasm as immediate and overwhelming as the gust of hot Tampa air blasting through the doorway. “We sawthe flyers. Lightning watch party, right? We wanted to get here early to snag good seats before it gets packed. You guys do Sunday brunch, don’t you?”
“Packed,” I repeated, the word not quite computing. I’d completely missed the Sunday brunch question.
“Yeah, man. Your flyers are all over Ybor. Everyone’s talking about it.” Bolts Cap grinned. “Plus, we heard the food here is insane. So we figured, why not come early, get brunch, camp out for the game?”
Brunch.
We weren’t planning to serve bunch. Or even lunch.
Rod was in the kitchen prepping for the 3 p.m. game and the 8 p.m. watch party, not for people who wanted to eat at ten in the morning.
“Uh,” I said eloquently. “Come in. Let me—I need to check with the kitchen, see if they can whip something together.”
They filed in, gravitating toward a table with a perfect view of the main TV, our one super-large screen that consumed an entire wall. The guys were loud, talking over each other, laughing, and radiating the kind of energy that made the empty bar feel less empty just by their presence.
I speed-walked to the kitchen.
Rod was at the stove, working on something thatalready smelled incredible. He looked up when I came in, one eyebrow raised.
“Three guys just showed up,” I said. “For brunch. Can we even do brunch?”
Rod blinked. “Uh, Finn, you know we don’t even have a brunch menu, right?”
“I know, and I told them that. They said they wanted to get here early for the game.” I was talking fast, my heart doing something complicated. “They saw the flyers and . . . Rod . . . they’re excited! Can we feed them?”
A slow smile spread across Rod’s face. “Holy shit. The flyers worked.”
“Maybe? I don’t know. There’s only three of them so far—”
“So far.” Rod turned back to his prep. “Yeah, I can do brunch. Give me fifteen minutes to adjust timing on the specials. In the meantime, we’ve got the regular menu. Burgers, wings, apps. Tell them that. You’ll have to go get eggs if they want breakfast dishes. I won’t have enough for brunch and the rest of the day.”
“Okay. Okay, yeah. Eggs. Got it.” I was backing toward the door. “Thank you.”
“Finn.”
