The scent of baked crust and fried food wafts through the air, mixing with the aroma of hops from the bar. Vintage-style pendant lights hang over some of the tables and the whole length of the dark-finished wood bar in the back. The soft glow from the sconces on the wall creates a relaxing atmosphere. One of the back walls is almost entirely made of windows, giving customers a view of the bay where Cedar Creek flows into the Columbia. The setting sun casts orange trickles of glittery light across the water as night draws closer.
I shift in my seat at a table for two next to some windows that look out into the row of parking spots along the street. Only a few people and families are scattered about the place beside me. So, when a middle-aged man with a dark, graying beard pushes through the double doors to the kitchen, I decide to shoot myshot. His walk and strong presence give him a manager-type aura.
Here goes nothing.
Slinging the strap of my crossbody bag over my shoulder, I push my chair under the table before making my way to the bar. The bar is nearly empty, but one elderly man with a beer in front of him sits a few seats down from where I’m standing.
The man behind the counter grabs a cup from the dish rack and a towel from the bar and dries it off.
I clear my throat. “Excuse me,” I interrupt, my voice emerging hoarser than I intend it to.
He turns toward me and smiles. His dimples show despite his facial hair. “What can I get for you?”
I swallow and lick my chapped lips, trying to wet my sandpaper tongue. “A job if you have one.”
The man chuckles, his eyes roaming over my appearance. “Sorry, darling. We aren’t hiring at the moment.”
My heart drops. Shit.
“Oh—are you sure?” I ask as if making him contemplate his response will change his answer. “I could buss tables, wash dishes…” I point to the glass in his hands as he works around the rim, polishing it with the towel.
“I’m sorry. I can’t afford to bring someone else on right now.”
“You’re the owner?”
A corner of his mouth tilts. “Sure am. Have been for the last ten years. And I take it you’re not from around here?” He furrows his brow.
My shoulders slump, and I sigh. “How does everyone know that?”
“Well, it’s not often that we have young people asking about jobs. And if they do, it’s kids who have lived here for a while—they’re familiar to everyone. You, on the other hand,” he dissectsme under his gaze, “have a presence and pretty face that would be hard to miss if you did live in this town.”
My eyes widen, and I smack my palms on the countertop as if I can transfer my excitement into the wood and not appear as desperate. “What about a delivery driver? Do you need one of those?”
He glides a hand over his beard. “I mean, it’s a good idea, but I’m not sure we get enough calls to consider hiring a delivery driver.”
“Oka—”
Wait, what?
A few seconds pass between us before he looks at me strangely. “Are you all right?”
My nails dig into the wood surface of the bar while my face continues to harden in bewilderment. “What do you mean, ‘consider hiring a delivery driver’? You have one.”
Creases form on his forehead. “No, I don’t. I’d know if I had a delivery driver.”
“Maybe it was another pizza place, then?” I think out loud to myself, though I’m positive I called Crocks.
He places the glass on the counter, the clank against the wood causing me to jump out of my skin. “We are the only one in town.”
I know what I saw.
“I placed an order on the phone with you two nights ago. A delivery guy showed up at my door with my pizza in thesameexact shirt you’re wearing,” I exclaim, gesturing to his shirt. “I’m not crazy.”
He watches me apprehensively, probably making his own assumptions about my unhinged state.
Maybe I am going insane. Seeing things.
“Sorry, I don’t know what to tell you. We’ve never had a delivery driver.” I close my eyes, releasing a frustrated breath.“But if you are looking for a job, you can try The Honey Hut, it’s a bakery and coffee bar down the road. She might be hiring and need the help.”
