I don’t know anyone here. Or rather, I knowofthem—Atticus has been making introductions all evening, guiding me through a parade of faces attached to names I vaguely recognize from entertainment news. That woman with the silver hair? Grammy nomination last year. The guy in the velvet jacket laughing too loud by the fireplace? Three films in post-production, according to Atticus’s whispered briefing.
Back in Harmony Harbor, conversation was simple. The weather. The fishing. Whose kid made varsity this season. Here, I’ve listened to a twenty-minute debate about whether some director’s “European period” represented genuine artistic growth or a calculated career pivot.
I contributed absolutely nothing.
And honestly? I’m fine with that.
I’m making drinks. I’m useful. Hopefully, no one expects me to actually hold a conversation.
Across the room, Atticus catches my eye. He’s holding court near the floor-to-ceiling windows. But his attention cuts through the crowd to find me, and his expression clearly communicates:You don’t have to stay behind the bar.
I give him a look back that says:Yes, I do.
He shakes his head with a small smile and returns to his conversation. This is already becoming a fluent language between us.
Phoenix and Mason are somewhere in the thick of it. This is technically their housewarming party so it makes sense for them to be the center of attention. Technically, it’s my housewarming also since I’ve basically moved in, but I prefer that no one outside of our new pack seems to realize it.
In the meantime, I’m happy amusing myself.
I didn’t intend to create a signature cocktail for the evening. Just started poking around the bar setup during a lull, marveling at ingredients I’d never had access to at The Rusty Anchor. Fresh herbs in little pots. Bitters in flavors I didn’t know existed. A citrus selection that includes things I can’t even identify.
One thing led to another.
The cocktail I’ve been making all night started as idle curiosity and became something I’m actually proud of. Elderflower and St. Germain liquor, prickly pear puree with arum float that literally changes color when you light it on fire, thanks to the edible shimmer powder I just discovered exists.
I’m calling it the Rising Phoenix.
“Whatever that delicious thing is that everyone keeps talking about, can I get one?”
I look up.
The woman standing at the bar is attractive in that specific LA way—polished and expensive, but in that effortless style that likely takes endless amounts of time.
“Coming right up.”
When she takes her first sip, her eyebrows climb up her forehead
“Oh, this isgood.” Another sip, slower this time, savoring. “I am genuinely impressed.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re wasted on house parties.” She leans against the bar, resting her elbows on the surface in a way that brings her a little too close. “Do you do private events? I’d love to connect.”
I swallow hard, hoping I’m not mistaking her intent here. “I do.”
“I’m veryflexibleon any arrangement you might be able to offer me.”
I open my mouth, entirely unsure how to respond, when a familiar weight presses into my side.
Phoenix materializes practically out of thin air. She loops one arm casually around my waist and rises on her toes to press a kiss to my cheek.
When she turns to the woman, her smile is one hundred percent genuine and also completely aware of the conversational subtext.
“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt! But did I hear you might be interested in booking Dom for an event?” Phoenix plucks a business card out of the stack conspicuously placed ina little glass bowl on the bar. “His rates start at two hundred an hour, not including mileage reimbursement.”
The woman takes the card. Looks at it. Looks at Phoenix. Looks at me.
“Right.” She clears her throat and busies herself tucking the business card into her tiny clutch purse. “I’ll…certainly reach out.”
