Page 39 of Bastard Bartender

Chapter Eleven

Avocados. I met a man this week, and it’s all because of avocados.

It amazes me that sometimes, I don’t even need to go out to a bar to meet someone. I take every opportunity I can to meet people, even when I do my weekly food-shopping trip. Turns out, the old grocery store meet-cute really does work.

I was checking out some avocados, feeling around for the perfect one when a cute guy appeared. I could tell he didn’t know how to buy avocados, as he grabbed the greenest one on the pile and picked it up to smell it.

I had to help the poor guy and give him a lesson on how the ripe ones were darker in color. We laughed as we stood in the produce section, groping fruit. It was cute.

When he told me his name was Richard, I couldn’t believe my luck.

When he asked me out, of course, I said yes.

We’re going to dinner tonight, so I take one last look at my outfit—skinny jeans with a ruby-red tank, paired with black heels—and head out the door to meet him at the restaurant. I decided not to go with Valducci’s and let him pick the venue. To my surprise, he chooses a hip barbeque joint just off The Strip.

The drive is quick, and it’s easy to find parking. I reapply my red lipstick in the overhead mirror and exit the car. As I head toward the restaurant, I see Richard walking up to the front door as well.

“Hey there,” I say, and he turns with a huge smile on his face.

“Evette, you look lovely.”

I nod, and he opens the door for me.

“So do you.”

It’s true. At the supermarket, he was wearing khakis and a button-down. He mentioned something about doing some shopping after work, so he must work somewhere business casual. Tonight, however, he has on dark jeans and a pale blue linen button-down shirt that brings out his eyes. His hair is combed back nicely, which makes me think about Nic’s unruly mess but I push the idea out of my head. He looks very date presentable, so he gets a check mark of approval in the dress-code box.

We walk inside, and I inhale the scent that wafts around me. “This place smells amazing.”

“It’s one of my favorite joints in town. You’ll have to try the pulled pork. It literally melts in your mouth.”

I laugh. “What’s the old saying? If it doesn’t get all over the place—”

“Then it doesn’t belong in your face,” he finishes with a smirk. “Absolutely. If you want ribs, we’ll share a plate and make a huge mess of eating with each other.”

“You won’t find me ordering just a salad at a place like this.”

“I knew you were my kind of girl.”

The restaurant has a long bar lining the wall and high-back booths against the others with tables scattered about the main dining room. Chandeliers of faux antlers and crystals hang from the ceiling, creating a rustic yet feminine flair.

Waiters are walking around with pails of baked beans and slaw. To my right, a group of coeds are placing a cowboy hat on a patron and singing “Happy Birthday.” It’s loud, it’s obnoxious, and it’s just my kind of place to dine.

“Two for dinner?” the hostess asks, holding out menus, ready for us to follow.

Richard nods, placing his hand on my lower back and leading me through the restaurant. We each take our own side in the booth as the hostess hands us the menus one at a time.

When our waitress arrives, we give our orders, including their signature cocktails. When they arrive, they’re massive, fruity, and tasty.

Our conversation flows easily as we wait for our meal. We discuss his work as an IT manager for Caesars Entertainment, mine and what brought us both to Vegas—work. We learn we both went to Cabo on our high school spring breaks, we love dogs, and we despise when we see couples feeding each other. The couple next to us is doing it, and it’s pretty gross. It has us laughing like schoolchildren.

I’m having a great time, and when our food arrives, I feel comfortable enough to dig in and not care one bit about not being ladylike as I bite into my first rib.

“Oh my gosh, these are so good,” I say with a mouthful. I’m sure I have a glob of barbecue sauce all over my cheeks, so I grab my napkin and quickly clean my face.

He smiles wide, showing me his own mess, and we both laugh.

It’s nice to feel comfortable with a man. Especially one who’s seemingly a stranger. Nic’s face the night we got basically dumped by our dates pops in my head when I think about how I felt that way with him. Maybe this alphabet thing is just making me more comfortable with men and myself.