Page 3 of The Businesswoman and the Bartender

“I hope you enjoy Seattle,” he said, handing her back her credit card and printed receipt.

“Thanks. I’m sure I will.”

He returned to tidying up, and she tipped him in cash before going on her way.

Just another friendly conversation with a bartender. Thanks to the regular travel her job required, she’d had dozens of similar interactions throughout the years. But none had made her stomach flutter so fiercely.

And no other bartender had invaded her dreams. Because that night, she dreamed that she was standing in the hotel’s elevator. And when the doors to the lift opened, Nick walked in. He said not a word to her. They simply stared at each other until he stepped forward and shot his hand down to cup her between her legs, pressing the fingers that had deftly crafted her cocktails straight against the most sensitive part of her.

She awoke with a start. In the darkness, her eyes found the clock on the nightstand, and a dejected sigh left her lungs. It was three in the morning, which meant it was six on the East Coast—the typical time she awakened.

So much for beating jet lag.

TWO

The first dayof the conference was a success. April had two client meetings, one of which was over lunch. They dined at a dumpling house not far from the convention center, and then the conference officially kicked off that afternoon with several seminars. Between the forums, she had a few quick chats with the usual suspects. Conferences were similar to family reunions in a way. You saw the same people, caught up on typical personal and professional topics, and did it all again the following year.

That evening, she dodged a dinner invitation from two of her coworkers. Being social all day was exhausting, and all she wanted was a quiet meal. Especially since there was one more day of the conference to endure.

And was she secretly hoping a certain handsome bartender would serve her again?

Perhaps.

She’d worn casual clothing the night before—jeans and a shapeless sweater—and her thick chestnut hair had been pulled up in a ponytail. But today she was in her best business casual: navy dress pants that hugged her natural curves, a cream blouse with bishop sleeves, and modest sling-back heels that added a few inches to her average height. Since she’d been up early that morning, she’d air-dried her naturally wavy hair and had painstakingly applied her makeup, taking time to highlight her upturned hazel eyes with eyeshadow and mascara. She looked good and felt even better, and she could only hope that Nick was working and would agree.

The lounge area was considerably busier, and there was an additional cocktail waitress working the space. April’s heels clacked against the tile floor as she approached the bar, the sound a siren call as Nick immediately looked her way. His eyes lit with recognition as she hoisted herself into the same stool she’d occupied the prior evening.

“Hey.” The one-word greeting teemed with intimacy, his voice low and husky. “I served you last night, right? Gin gimlet?”

“That’s right. Good memory.”

Nick handed her a menu and lifted one shoulder in an easy shrug. “You were memorable.”

Her face burned hotter than the sun’s surface in response to that compliment. With a light laugh, she glanced down at the menu to get her bearings straight. “I’m a creature of habit. I’ll have another gimlet.”

“Coming right up.”

As he prepared her drink, she tried to settle her rioting belly. But it was difficult to do when the simple sight of his hands enthralled her and brought last night’s dream barreling back to the forefront of her mind. How he’d stepped forward and cupped the space between her legs so surely, without even asking for permission, as if that was where he belonged. It was a testament to how long she’d been alone that a few seconds of fantasy could set her blood on fire and consume her thoughts hours later.

He set the coupe glass down and asked, “Doing dinner again?”

Only if dessert is you.She mentally swatted away that unhinged thought and choked out a response. “Uh, yes. Yesterday you said you like the steak sandwich?”

“I eat it an unhealthy amount,” he admitted, a cheeky grin on his face.

“I’ll do that, then.”

With a quick nod, he took her menu and put her order in. Her seat was closest to his main workstation, so it provided a clear view of him even though he couldn’t chat. The busy atmosphere meant that his top priority was churning drinks out constantly for the bargoers and the waitresses working the tables. There was something magnetic about his movements, a fluidity that was as graceful as a dancer and as assertive as a man who knew how to handle a willing woman.

It was fascinating to watch him craft cocktail after cocktail. Martini, old fashioned, margarita, mojito, cosmopolitan—drink after drink after drink. It was clear he was a natural at his chosen vocation. He was able to expertly create drinks, take food orders, direct the barback, and do it all while shooting the shit with customers.

To save face—and not continue to stare like a stalker—she nursed her gimlet and scrolled through social media on her phone. And maybe a lumberjack video or two. Soon her steak sandwich arrived, brought over by the barback instead of Nick. But he was right behind the food runner with a set of utensils for her.

“Can I get you anything else?” he asked.

April shook her head. “I’m good. Thanks, Nick.”

His cheerful face shifted to a different expression—as if using his name demonstrated that she’d also found him memorable, and that was particularly satisfying to him.

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