Page 8 of The Businesswoman and the Bartender

WELL?

Shouldn’t you be asleep?

Don’t make me get on a plane and come over there.

I’m…conflicted.

About what? April, you’ve been working yourself to the bone for years now. You deserve to have a little fun!

I know, I know…I guess I’m out of practice and feeling a bit insecure.

Oh, to hell with that. You’re funny and pretty and kind, and he should be honored you wanna bang his brains out.

April laughed and stabbed a ravioli with her fork. Since her decision to have dinner elsewhere, she’d been wavering on whether to stop at the bar for a nightcap or avoid it altogether. God, she was the epitome of a flip-flopper. One night she was determined to seduce Nick, and the next, she was avoiding him completely. Further proof she was out of her element.

She replied back to Lucy with a vagueI guess I’ll have to see what happensand then finished up her meal. It was a few minutes to ten o’clock as she traveled back to the hotel, and her gut churned with the possibility that they’d done last call. She remembered Nick mentioning how they decided closing time based on how busy the night was, and the idea that they’d already packed it up for the night made her feel ill.

Well, that reaction certainly spoke volumes. It was foolish to think she’d be able to head right back to her room without even looking at him. Walking as fast as her legs would allow without breaking into a full-out run, she headed to the lounge. As she approached the entrance, she caught Nick’s eye from behind the bar. She watched as his chest rose and then fell, inhaling and exhaling deeply. Meanwhile, she could barely pull air into her lungs.

But somehow, she was able to move her legs, and she approached her usual stool. The bar and lounge were nearly empty. There were two lone men sitting at the bar—one at the far end and one smack in the middle—and two parties at high-top tables. Everyone was either engrossed in their phones or in their conversations, creating the illusion of privacy as Nick drew closer.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hi. You, uh, haven’t done last call yet, have you?”

He shook his head and gestured for her to take a seat. “Gimlet?”

“Please.”

April heaved herself up onto the stool as he prepared her cocktail. A significant silence descended around them, although the soft jazz soundtrack offered some reprieve. She had hoped that after a glass of wine, she’d be more chatty, more uninhibited, but the air was fraught.

He slid her gimlet over and murmured, “For a minute there, I was worried you weren’t going to show.”

She winced and avoided his gaze. “I had dinner plans.”

“Ah. Clients, coworkers?”

“Yes. Exactly.”

He deserved to hear the truth—that she’d avoided coming here because she was already halfway obsessed with him—but she pushed the confession down with a sip of the cocktail, which was perfectly chilled and tart.

“I’m afraid you’ve ruined gin gimlets for me,” she blurted out.

His mouth curled and he leaned down, setting his forearms on the bar. “How so?”

“It’ll feel weird drinking one that’s not made by you.”

The smile on his face transformed into an expression of astonishment, the dimples disappearing as his jaw sagged. But he recovered quickly and asked, “How did the last day of the conference go?”

“Same as it ever was. How has your night been? Was it busy earlier?”

“Not too bad. Steady, for the most part, but it started to clear out about thirty minutes ago.”

“I’m glad I made it in time.”

He held her stare, and she had to believe, in that quiet moment, that everything leading up to this wasn’t basic bartender flirtation. She hadn’t misread the situation. There was something more here—something worth pursuing.

But it was also something that couldn’t last. He lived in Seattle. She had made a home in New York. A one-night stand would be the extent of it. And yet, April remembered Lucy’s encouraging text messages. She had to allow herself to let loose. If she wanted to have a torrid vacation fling, it should be with someone she enjoyed talking to and found genuinely attractive.

---