Page 8 of His Passerotta

“That’s not my concern,” he says dispassionately. “If you know someone who’s looking, feel free to tell them to apply. Management handles that position.”

My neck and shoulders stiffen, and I feel my lips tighten. I’m sure he doesn’t realize it, because no one else seems to, but the devaluing of my work is insulting. And frustrating.

“You don’t think the quality of drinks equates to the quality of food?”

“Of course. An impressive selection of wine is essential for a menu… It doesn’t take talent to pour liquid into a glass, though, does it?”

Did he just…?

What the fuck?

“Do you serve cocktails?”

He shrugs. “Sure.”

“Well, there you go. Bartenders have individual preferences using different measurements of chosen ingredients, just like chefs.”

He chuckles. “Okay.”

I turn to him with my eyes narrowed. This, coming from the guy who ordered a different drink every time I served him. I thought he understood in a way most people don’t. Obviously not.

This just knocked him down several rungs on the hotness ladder.

He tilts his head from side to side, considering something. “You’re right in a way, I guess.”

My narrowed eyes soften, and I’m able to sit comfortably again. His choice of words flutters into my mind… If you know someone who’s looking, feel free to tell them to apply.

He doesn’t realize I’m the bartender looking for the job.

Which means he doesn’t remember me. Not surprising, but there’s still a little sting in my chest.

“I was a bartender,” I say to prod his memory.

“Mmm,” is all he replies.

“At a place in Naked City called Freddy’s. It’s kind of a shit hole, so I finally quit last month.”

Okay, I was fired. But for stupid reasons. Reasons I’m sure as hell not going to admit to my new boss.

Oh wait, I’m beneath Anthony’s level of attentiveness, so I guess that makes him not my boss… Asshole.

“Never heard of it,” he says.

I stare ahead to hide my confusion. I don’t want him to know I know him. Not before he realizes he knows me.

He doesn’t. There isn’t a trace of me in his memory, otherwise he wouldn’t be lying about never being there. If I was truly a complete stranger, I would understand his denial because the business he was doing there looked shady. But I’m not a complete stranger. I saw the dealings. There would be no point in lying if he remembered me.

Damn… That hurts.

“Are you good?” he asks me.

I swallow and sit up straighter. “Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?”

His expression turns quizzical. “I’m referring to your bartending capabilities. You seem to have a firm opinion on differing quality, so I’m assuming that means you think highly of yourself?”

I open my mouth to speak but am not sure what to say. I can’t tell if he’s mocking me or asking me a genuine question.

I go with the truth. “Yes, I’m good. I’m not sure that I’m memorable, but I’m good.”

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