Dexter
I hear the bell give a sharp jingle that cuts through the quiet.
I turn.
Lexy.
Hoodie pulled up, eyes heavy with exhaustion, her arms wrapped tight around herself like she’s holding something in place that might come apart if she lets go. For a second, something in my chest tightens before I can stop it, and I shove it down just as fast.
“Too early,” I mutter, crossing my arms, irritation settling in before I can question it. I nod toward the big clock on the wall. “Shift doesn’t start for another thirty minutes.”
She lifts her chin anyway, stubborn despite the way she looks like she hasn’t slept. “I just… wanted to get here, get settled before ten.”
Of course she did.
Already trying too hard, already pushing herself past where she should be.
I grit my teeth, exhaling through my nose before I jerk my head toward the back. “Fine. Follow me. I’ll show you the ropes.”
I drag a hand over my jaw as I turn away. “Since you’re here, might as well make yourself useful.”
If she thinks showing up early is going to impress me, she’s wrong.
Still, I don’t send her back out into the cold.
I start with the coffee machine, keeping my voice controlled, steady. “This is the espresso. Shots go here. Milk steams there. Don’t touch the dials unless you ask, or we’ll have everything taste like burnt rubber.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch the way she leans forward, small hands wrapped around a notebook she must’ve grabbed just for this. They’re still a little red, a little stiff, like she hasn’t fully warmed up yet.
She’s petite. Too thin. Her skin is pale enough it almost catches the light, and her hair, so blonde it looks white under the fluorescent glow, brushes her shoulders as she tilts her head, listening like every word matters.
Her eyes lift to me every few seconds, dark blue and sharp, taking everything in like she can’t afford to miss anything.
She looks like she doesn’t belong here.
Like something too soft for a place like this.
I shove that thought away and move on to the taps. “Kegs rotate weekly. Pull straight, not sideways. Tilt the glass. Foam’s fine, just don’t drown it.”
Then the register, the kitchen, the flow of the place, my voice falling into something automatic, something safe. It’s easier to talk than to think about the way she’s watching me.
I grab an apron and toss it toward her. “Wear it. Pockets in front. Don’t lose it.”
“You’ll get your T-shirts with the bar logo when you pass this trial run.”
Her eyes shoot up at that. I ignore it and go on explaining everything.
She nods through all of it, quiet, focused, like she’s committing everything to memory. I catch myself watching her for a second longer than I should before I turn away.
She’d better pick this up fast.
This place doesn’t wait for anyone.
By noon, Stephen shows up, grinning like he owns the place. Two years behind the bar and just cocky enough to think that means something.
I let him take over the lunch rush while I step back, but my attention drifts anyway.
Right back to her.
