Page 57 of Every Beautiful Mile

The bartender nods before opening every cooler until he finds the beer.

He still hasn’t looked at me.

A brunette woman with bright red lips and a low-cut top squeezes between two stools and waves slightly. Instantly, he’s in front of her, leaning casually with his back to me and saying something closely as he fills her wine. She laughs. He acts as if the bar isn’t imploding around him and people aren’t waiting for drinks.

Like me.

That move pushes me from patient to pissed.

I’m trying to give him the benefit of the doubt for being ignored. Maybe he’s new. Or blind, I had considered after seeing the state of the bar around him. The way he’s giving all his attention to the woman with melons taking up precious real estate at the bar while I’m smothered between the wall and the scent of bad perfume lets me know he’s able to see just fine.

I bring two fingers to my mouth and let a whistle fly.

The bartender’s head snaps away from the red-lipped lady, and our eyes meet.

Mine narrow before widening.

I can barely breathe.

The woman next to me shifts her weight and somehow pushes me closer to the wall, but I don’t feel it.

Ethan Mills is at the bar because he’s the bad bartender.

He swallows up the distance between us with long strides until he is directly across from me.

“You got my attention. What?” he snaps.

What?

Of all the scenarios I imagined, this was not one of them.

I open my mouth then snap it shut, stunned to silence.

“You make a big show of whistling me over here. You ordering?”

His eyes shoot from me down the busy line of people on stools.

My nostrils flare.

Real-life Ethan is not the same as email Ethan, and I think I might hate him.

I fold my hands on the menu.

“If you weren’t making such a big show of letting your bar sink, I wouldn’t have had to break out my whistle. But you seem to be having a bad day, so I’m going to let it slide. I’ll have the Mountain Mojito and the grilled chicken salad with feta and the house dressing.”

I smile.

“No specialty drinks tonight,” he says.

“I’ll have a regular mojito then,” I order it to be petty.

He’s being a jerk. He’s admitted to me he hates working behind the bar, and there’s nothing I want to see more than him having to muddle mint while people shout drink orders at him.

Which is why my smile widens.

“A regular mojito?” He drops his head back with an incredulous laugh. “No. No mojitos. You can have beer, wine, or a cocktail that requires less than two ingredients.”

His jaw tics.

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