Page 14 of With a Grain of Salt

I grab the man a bottle of beer because, honestly, it's less work for me to throw the empty away rather than having to walk a dirty glass back to the kitchen. Doing that means I might run into Walker who could fire me on the spot before I close my tables out for the evening.

Dr. McBride thanks me for his beer before turning back to the conversation he was having with someone else, and I feel a sense of relief.

The man is as nice as can be, but I've heard hints from several clients about how he's single and I'm single and maybe we should date. Like dating your boss is the best idea in the world. Kristina, another single parent who works at the clinic, told me it took years and her getting mad many times before people stopped making the same suggestion to her. Even now, there are a few elderly women who just can't understand why the nice doctor hasn't been taken off the bachelor list.

The rest of the shift goes by way too fast for my liking, considering the conversation I'm going to have to have with Walker. I don't run into any issues, and there are no prolonged distractions like we've had on other nights.

"Walker said he'll show you the shutdown routine," Maggie says before heading for the front door. "Have a good night."

I can't help but feel betrayed as the door closes behind her, but I know enough to follow her and lock the door. The last thing I need is someone coming in and witnessing Walker giving me the boot. It would be the number one topic of conversation over breakfast at The Brew and Chew come morning.

"Your list," Walker says, sliding a piece of paper across the bar when I turn back in that direction.

He turns to face the cash register before I can speak.

The list is simple enough, but he wasted his time writing it out. I know how to close down a bar and make it ready for the next shift. I could do it in my sleep from muscle memory.

I guess I should be grateful he's giving me at least another hour on the payroll, but the man isn't an idiot either. He doesn't want to have to wipe down all these tables, sweep, and then mop the floors. Maggie would have his ass if she came in tomorrow and it wasn't done.

I've always wondered what would be worse—firing someone at the beginning of their shift or waiting until they get ready to clock out to have that conversation.

As I clean and feel his eyes on me nearly the entire time, I think this is far worse than a phone call telling me not to bother coming in.

When the jukebox plays the last song that a customer requested, the only sound that filters around the room is the central air making up for the loss of bodily heat now that it's only the two of us. It's too quiet, too personal.

I finish wiping down the tables before heading to the back to grab the broom and mop bucket, sending a whispered thank you to Maggie who prepared the bucket for me before the end of her shift. I have no doubt she thought she was closing like she has every other shift I've worked and did this early to make it easier for herself. It's what I would've done during a lull.

He doesn't speak to me while I sweep and remains just as silent when I mop, the very last thing on the list he provided. I shove the note in my pocket before rolling the mop bucket to the back.

Once it's empty, I fight the urge to hit the door.

He's wanted to talk to me before and I just left. I've been working here for over two weeks without having to have this conversation. It's been fine. I know I work hard. I'm good at being a waitress and a bartender. It wasn't until I cussed at him tonight that he was adamant about having this conversation, and I regretted the words the second they left my mouth. My issues aren't with him. It's with every person who thinks they're helping when they're simply making me feel guilty.

With my head high, I walk toward the office. I've never been to this part of the bar before. In fact, I've mostly avoided the man since I demanded he hire me. I've wanted to avoid this very situation.

I hate the way his gruff “come in” hits my ears and makes my body perk up when I knock on the door.

Why can't I be indifferent to him the same way I am to Dr. McBride? It sure would make things a lot easier.

"This place is a mess," I say, wishing for the second time tonight that I could manage my brain-to-mouth filter I seem to lack around him a little better.

He blinks in my direction, clearly unimpressed with my evaluation of his office.

"Please have a seat," he says, pointing to the chair across from his desk.

There's a stack of paper I'd have to move if I do as he directs.

"I think I'll stand."

"I can move that," he says, standing up from behind the desk.

The tiny office doesn't leave much more room than what the desk, filing cabinet, and two chairs are taking up, but his standing has him looming over me.

"Can we just get this over with?" I ask, knowing I'm going to force him to say the words rather than taking every hint he's thrown my way since I showed up here in the first place.

Most people in town are too nice, but this man has literally crossed the street in order to get away from me. It took a lot of pride-swallowing to come here the first time and ask for an application. I should've left it at that when he never called me for an interview, but that looming stack of bills and Christmas coming soon made me push the issue.

"Fine," he says in a way that makes him seem like that petulant drunk guy from earlier who couldn't get it through his head that touching women he doesn't have the right to touch isn't okay. "Here."

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