"Kayla, that’s— that’s the smartest thing I’ve heard all week," he said, his voice dropping into that warm, intimate rumble. "You deserve to have a life that isn't just shifts and laundry."
"Kayla, we’re backing up over here," Miller said as he squeezed past me to check the keg lines. He gave me a pointed look, his eyes darting to Michael and then to the row of waiting customers. "Conversation is for break time. Drinks are for now."
"I'm on it," I said, pivoting to grab a handful of tumblers. I looked back at Michael, the playful glint returning to my eyes. "But don't get too excited, Landry. If I do decide to dip my toe back in the dating pool, I'm looking for someone... safer. More stable."
Michael’s smile faltered just a fraction. "Stable? I’m stable. I have a 401k and I’ve never missed a car payment."
"I mean someone safe for Gabe," I said, leaning over the bar so only he could hear. "Someone with a steady nine-to-five. Someone who doesn't travel half the year or get into fistfights for a living. I need a positive influence. A 'dad' type, not a 'star' type."
Michael let out a dry, incredulous laugh. "Wait. Are you dating this guy, or is Gabe? Because last I checked, you’re the one who’s supposed to be having the glass of wine."
"It’s a package deal." I brushed him off, though I could feel the heat rising in my cheeks. "He has to fit into the life I’ve built. I wouldn't even know where to begin choosing someone just forme. Honestly, I can’t even remember what my type is anymore. It’s been so long."
Michael didn't say anything for a second. He just looked at me, that steady, intense gaze of his pinned to mine. Then, slowly, he raised a hand and pointed over my shoulder.
"If you're looking for your type," he said softly, "it’s right there."
I turned around, expecting to see some guy in a flannel shirt walking through the door. Instead, I found myself staring into the giant, gold-rimmed mirror that ran the length of the back-bar, nestled between the rows of whiskey and gin.
Reflected in the glass, right next to my own image, was Michael. He was leaning on the bar, looking at my reflection with a look so tender it made my throat ache. He caught my eye in the mirror and gave a tiny, playful wave with two fingers, a smug little smirk playing on his lips.
I rolled my eyes, though my heart was doing a frenzied tap-dance. "Get out of here, Landry. You’re a menace to my productivity."
"I'm a service to your memory," he countered, sliding off the stool as Landon came over to drag him back to the booth.
"Come on, Romeo! The wings are here and you’re missing the highlights." He shoved Michael’s shoulder, giving me a wink. "Sorry, Kayla. We’ll try to keep the old man focused on the team for at least ten minutes."
"Please do," I said, waving them away with a damp rag. "He’s getting in the way of the paying customers."
Michael laughed, allowing himself to be led away, but he looked back over his shoulder one last time before sliding into the booth with the rest of the team.
I stayed where I was for a beat, the damp rag forgotten in my hand. I caught my own reflection in the mirror again—the flush in my cheeks, the way my eyes were a little brighter than they had been an hour ago. I looked at the empty stool where he’d been sitting and then at the loud, boisterous group of athletes in the corner.
I had spent fifteen years being the girl who didn't have a type because she didn't have the time. I was the girl who lived for the boy in the hoodie and the shifts at the Faucet. But as I watched Michael throw his head back and laugh at something Tucker said, I realized the problem wasn't that I’d forgotten my type.
The problem was that my type had just walked into my bar, bought me seventy-five cookies, and started making my five-year plan look like a really lonely way to live.
"Kayla—the Guinness," Miller shouted from the other end.
I snapped out of it, diving back into the rhythm of the night, but the introspection followed me like a shadow. I wasn't just working anymore. I was waiting. And that was the most dangerous thing of all.
The night had shifted into that crazy, late-hour fever where the air in the bar felt recycled and the bass from the jukebox thrummed in the soles of my shoes. The Surge boys were still tucked into their booth, a loud island of high-fives and expensive denim, but the rest of the floor was a chaotic sea of Friday night warriors.
I stepped out from behind the mahogany fortress to clear a cluster of abandoned longnecks from a high-top near the small, makeshift dance floor. The transition from the safety of the bar to the open floor always felt like stepping onto a battlefield without armor. I balanced the empty bottles against my hip, my fingers hooked into the necks, weaving through the swaying bodies with the practiced grace of a bike messenger.
I was halfway back to the service gate when a hand clamped onto my upper arm and stopped me in my tracks.
"Hey, hey, looks like the barkeep’s taking a break," a voice slurred in my ear.
I didn't have time to brace myself before I was yanked into a clumsy, jarring twirl. The world spun in a blur of neon streaks as the guy pulled me into his space. He was tall, smelling of cheap whiskey and sweat, his eyes glazed with the kind of confidence only a tab over a hundred dollars could provide.
"Just a dance, honey," he grinned, his grip tightening.
"I’m working," I said, keeping my voice level, the professional mask firmly in place. I kept the bottles balanced, my elbow tucked in to keep them from shattering against his chest. "Let go of the arm. I have glass in my hands."
"Come on, don't be shy. You’re the prettiest thing in here."
But he didn't let go. Instead, his other hand traveled down, heavy and familiar, splaying across the small of my back and sliding lower. The fun customer act died instantly. My skin crawled, and a cold spike of adrenaline replaced the warmth of the shift.
