Page 2 of Finn

And then there’s the fact we tend to attract a huge clientele of mostly men.

Big surprise, huh?

That’s okay. I’m secure in myself and wouldn’t have it any other way.

Besides, Boots has become like my second home, which is great since I live by myself and hate sitting around my townhouse feeling lonely.

Even if that is what I really deserve.

To combat this new bout of self-loathing, I tuck back a strand of my auburn hair, one that had escaped from my ponytail, sigh, and head down the bar to finally check on Old John.

“Are you good?” I ask once I’m standing in front of him. “Do you need anything?”

He holds up a dark bottle and says, “Maybe one more beer.”

He’s been here for a while, so I raise a brow. “You’re taking an Uber home tonight, right? You didn’t drive here?”

“I didn’t, and I am,” he assures me. “Uber is how I got here, and that’s how I plan to go home. So don’t worry your pretty little head about that nonsense.”

He means no harm; this is just classic Old John.

I chuckle and reply, “Okay, good to know.”

Since he likes to talk, I’m not surprised when he lifts his phone and informs me, “I actually have one of those there Ubers on the way. But it says here he’ll be another fifteen minutes. That’s more than enough time to down one more.”

“It sure is,” I agree as I reach down into the cooler under the bar and grab a cold bottle of Old John’s favorite beer. “Here ya go.” I twist off the cap and set it down in front of him, adding, “Oh, and by the way, this one’s on me.”

Smiling big, he says softly, “Why, thank you, Sammie.”

I see two new customers coming in and heading this way, so I walk back down the bar to see what they need.

Over my shoulder, I call out, “You’re welcome, Old John.”

As I close in on the other side of the bar, where the two guys have just sat down on the same stools Ben and Jason were occupying, I mutter, “Ugh.”

Not these two again.

I roll my eyes.

I’m not sure if these dudes are brothers, like Ben and Jason, or just friends, but unfortunately I know from experience that they definitely fall into the category of “obnoxious patrons.”

Just my luck that they decided to come in tonight.

They’ve been here before, to eat and to drink, and I’ve found them to be rude. They never cross the line, or else their asses would get thrown out and banned, but they give off a creepy vibe, nonetheless.

Hopefully, tonight they’ll just have one drink each and leave.

Plastering on my best fake smile, I saunter up to where they’re seated and ask what they’re having tonight.

“Mmm, maybe you,” the one with the darker hair mutters.

“Excuse me?” I snap.

They’re usually not this aggressive.

Well, one thing is for sure—I will not put up with their shit. Not tonight. I will hit the buzzer under the bar—the one that alerts our night manager, Evan, who’s in the back and doubles as a bouncer in situations like these—so fast it will not even be funny.

I guess my serious demeanor and sour look get my message across, as the jerks just quietly order two drafts that are on special tonight.

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