‘All good,’ she replies with a nod.
‘What’ll it be?’ Tom asks me.
‘I want one of those,’ I reply with a smile, nodding over at the girls with the passionfruit martinis.
It’ll have to be a non-alcoholic version, since I’m working, but it’s still my favourite cocktail.
The dinner rush hasn’t yet started as it’s five o’clock, and there are only a few covers at the upstairs tables. Tom and I wander over to the sofas and sit down opposite each other.
‘I’ve had no luck finding somewhere else to stay,’ he says conversationally, and my heart jumps because I hadn’t known how serious he was about sticking around in Aggie for longer.
‘The Driftwood Spars had a few days here and there, but not a long stint,’ he adds.
I screw up my nose at him, disappointed.
He mirrors me exactly.
We both laugh.
Tom is reading out the blurbs for Harlan Coben and Lisa Jewell novels, trying to get my opinion on which book to read next, when footsteps on the stairs make me turn my head.
My stomach lurches at the sight of Tyler sauntering towards me, all long legs and arms, thick dark lashes and dishevelled hair. I jump to my feet, rattled.
‘Hi, Liv,’ he says.
He’s so like Finn. I haven’t seen him around town in the last year.
‘Hi!’ I exclaim. ‘Is everything okay?’
My voice comes out sounding weird, all high-pitched and panicky.
‘Yeah, fine,’ he replies, casual as anything. ‘I was wondering if you’ve got any bar work going.’
I’m shocked. Finn’s brother working here with me at Seaglass? I’m not sure I could cope.
‘Oh,’ I say regretfully. ‘We’re kind of okay for staff right now. Anyway, you have to be over eighteen,’ I add hastily.
‘Iameighteen,’ he states.
‘Are you?’ I squeak.
‘Last month.’
‘Oh, wow! Congratulations!’
He stares at me, probably wondering why the hell I’m acting so oddly. Am I being unfair? It’s not his fault Finn has moved on.
I feel a pang, but notice that it’s muted.
‘Gosh. Um. I don’t know, Tyler, maybe?’ I’m starting to rethink my knee-jerk reaction. ‘Bill could probably do with some help in the kitchen. Does it have to be bar work?’
‘I’d prefer to mix drinks, but I guess I could help out in the kitchen.’ He sounds his usual surly self.
‘Let me ask. Do you want to give me your number?’ I remember that my phone is downstairs behind the bar.
‘Why don’t you give meyournumber?’ he suggests bluntly before I can go with option number two: hunting out a scrap of paper in the kitchen to write on.
‘Er, okay.’
