“What can I get you?” The bartender is standing in front of me, eyebrows raised expectedly.
“A whiskey sour, please. Two cherries.”
When he places the glass down in front of me a moment later, I drain half of it in an eager swallow. It burns my throat on the way down, reminding me just how dehydrated I am, and I make a mental note to do a better job drinking water during my next shift.
The bells chime over the doorway as Mia steps inside, flanked on either side by Juan and Corbin. Hank trails behind them.
Mia saunters over to the jukebox, then makes her way over to us, wiggling her hips to the Lana Del Rey song she’s selected. She’s changed into dark jeans and a black leather jacket that make her look even more intimidating than she did in the kitchen.
“Sup, Mia.” The bartender flashes her a grin. “Gin and tonic?”
“You know it.”
She looks over at me, carefully eyeing me up and down.
“Well… you did okay tonight,” she admits after a pause. “Even if you did come dressed as a receptionist.”
“Really? Thanks.” I get the feeling that for Mia, this is practically a compliment.
She turns to Hank.
“Pool?”
The two of them head off to the table in the back corner.
“Wow, praise from Mia,” Ethan remarks once they’re safely out of earshot. “That’s no small feat, you know.”
I shrug my shoulders. “I’m just grateful I got the job. To tell you the truth, I was pretty nervous I’d blow it.”
He smiles. “I know what you mean. My first night on the job, I threw up in the bathroom.”
“No!”
“It’s true.” He gives a frank shake of his head. “I’ve been working in kitchens for five years now, and I still get nervous. Everyone does. We all have bad nights here and there. The secret is, when you need to cry—and trust me, at some point, you will—you do it in the walk-in. Get in there, let it out, and then get back to work.”
I raise an eyebrow at him. “People really cry in the walk-in fridge?”
“Lexi, everyone cries in the walk-in.” He tips his chin toward Oren. “Especially that guy.”
I glance over at Oren, his hulking frame bent over the bar as he chats loudly at the bartender. Try as I might, I can’t picture it.
“Trust me, you’ll see,” Ethan says, as though he’s read my mind again. “Dude’s like a molten lava cake. Hard on the outside, soft and weepy on the inside.”
As if on cue, Oren strides over to us, clapping Ethan on his shoulder. “It’s time to settle up, kid. A bet’s a bet, after all. And I won this one.”
Ethan reaches into his back pocket, extracting his wallet. Hepulls out a twenty-dollar bill and slips it to Oren, who salutes him before lumbering back to the bar.
Confused, I turn to Ethan. His ears are tipped in red.
“So, what was this bet, exactly?”
Ethan glances up at me, his expression flushed with mortification.
“I bet Oren that Mia would scare you off before you finished yourstage. He said you could hold your own, that you were tougher than you look.” He runs a hand through his hair sheepishly. “He was right, of course. You did great tonight. I’m sorry, Lexi. Really, I feel like a jerk.”
“It’s fine,” I assure him. “But just so you know, you’re buying me another drink.”
Ethan’s face splits into a relieved grin. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”
