Heat went through me so fast I had to lock my knees.
I grabbed the deposit envelopes from the drawer and pushed them against his chest. “Carry these before I make a bad staffing decision.”
His fingers closed over the envelopes. “That wasn’t a no.”
“That was a you’re still on the clock.”
His smile was slow, sharp at the edge, and gone before anyone else could see it. “Yes, boss.”
I walked back into the rush with my face hot and my ability to form policy severely damaged.
By nine, the blue margarita had sold through the first batch mix, the second batch mix, and half the emergency batch I hadn’t told Shay existed because bartenders deserved occasional miracles. The cannoli cups had become a thing. Taryn’s travel-account repost had brought in two tables who specifically asked for “the shark drink with the black rim,” which made me want to both hug the internet and throw it into the sea.
The numbers climbed.
These were not theoretical numbers or please-let-this-work numbers.
They were real ones.
Cash in the drawer. Card batches closed clean in blocks. Food sales running high because dessert made people add appetizers like logic had left them unsupervised. Drink sales strong enough that Shay looked at the ticket line and said, “I’m concerned for America and pleased for us.”
At ten fifteen, Mari leaned both hands on the pass. “We’re out of filled cups.”
I glanced at the dry shells. “How much cream?”
“Enough for twelve.”
“Then twelve. Announce final drop.”
Taryn heard it from the front and lifted both hands. “Final cannoli drop in ten minutes. If anyone cries, I’m offering napkins and no promises.”
A woman near the rail called, “Can I reserve four?”
“You can order four when they exist,” I called back. “This is dessert, not real estate.”
Nico coughed once into his fist.
I didn’t look at him because I was busy being professional.
At ten forty, the final cannoli cups went out. At ten fifty-two, the last shark margarita of the night hit the bar in front of a woman wearing a sun hat the size of a patio umbrella.
She took one sip and sighed. “This tastes like trouble.”
I leaned both palms on the bar. “That’s the brand.”
By midnight, we closed to applause from one table that had been over-served by vacation itself.
By twelve twenty, Shay was counting her drawer with a towel over her shoulder, Taryn was saving the social posts into a folder, Dusty was sweeping under stools while singing under his breath, and Mari was wrapping the last cold container with enough force to scare bacteria.
I stood at the back counter with the totals.
The paper didn’t care about feelings. Good. I trusted paper more than men who described seizure clauses as remedies.
Card batches. Cash. Food totals. Drink totals. Payment note. Deposit bag. Receipts.
The numbers were bigger than last night.
Bigger than anything I’d let myself hope for.
