Page 10 of The Bartender's Baby

My weekly schedule remained mostly the same. Walt’s was open every day, but I had Mondays off and preferred to close at the end of the night because it tended to be quieter. I’d always been a night owl, so it suited me, especially since my classes were all in the afternoon.

Though this was a college town, Walt’s wasn’t necessarily a college bar. It had more of aCheersvibe, with regulars at certain times or days. We hosted trivia on Wednesday nights and occasional bands, including a standing gig for a group who called themselves the Anchormen on the third Thursday of every month. Which was when I worked another long shift. Because as much as Nate liked to micromanage, so did I.

It was why I usually found Nate behind the bar with me on those nights. Although I appreciated how he had no problemjumping in and getting his hands dirty, I didnotappreciate how he glared at me all evening. Even as the guitarist announced he’d popped the question to his girlfriend, offering to buy the entire bar a round. Even as the sister of the bride—Kennedy, I think her name was—tugged on Nate’s arm to go with her and talk to the band and his friend, Liam. Even as I handled all those freaking orders by myself. He glared at me.

Like I’d done something wrong.

I assumed he was pissed that I was pregnant. Guys were assholes like that. Yeah, I was his right hand, but I was also a woman. A capable woman, able to do multiple things at once, like manage his bar and grow a human.

I’d never taken him as one of those barefoot-in-the-kitchen types, but I might’ve been wrong about him this whole time. Especially because he snatched the rag out of my hand at the end of the night and pushed me to the office, ordering me to sit down.

I reeled on him. “If you’re trying to get me to quit, it won’t work. You want to fire me for being pregnant? Then do it.”

He wrenched backward. “What?”

“I said you’re gonna have to fire me.” I was salaried, so he could cut my hours but would still need to pay me the same. If he wanted to get rid of me, he’d actually have to say the words. I held my hands out at my sides, daring him. “Do it.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“You and your obvious hatred of my being pregnant.”

He grumbled something I didn’t understand then wrapped his hand around my bicep, ushering me to the office.

“Sit here. I can finish closing up. Then we’re going to talk.”

Closing never took long, mostly because I did my job well and made sure bathrooms were checked multiple times a day, and the bar was kept orderly and clean. The kitchen shut down three hours before close, so the only tasks that needed to be completedwere counting the drawers and mopping the floor, which could all be accomplished in about twenty minutes.

Nate did them in about ten.

And then he was in my space, practically growling at me. “Let’s talk.”

I scooted away from him in the rolling chair, holding his gaze yet keeping my face devoid of emotion. “About what?”

He waved his hand at my stomach. “You and this baby.”

I kept quiet.

“You drop a bomb on me and expect me to continue as if nothing has changed? When literally everything has changed.”

I wiped my palm over my forehead. He could be so dramatic sometimes. “Nothing has changed for you.”

He threw his arms up as ifIwas being the irrational one here. “Tab, you’re having ababy, but you haven’t talked to me about any of it.”

“Why would I need to talk to you about it?”

“Because!”

I waited for him to explain, and when it became obvious he wasn’t going to, I stood. “I don’t want to deal with whatever male attitude adjustment you’re going through. You?—”

He sat me back in the chair and leaned over, his hands on either side of me, his face so close I would count the individual hairs in his short beard, the few random grays that from far away appeared blond until you got up close. And up close, they looked good.Helooked good. With his gray-blue eyes and wide brow that often had a lock of golden-brown hair hanging over it, like it did now.

“You’re not leaving here until you tell me what’s going on,” he said, more serious than I’d ever heard him. “I want to know everything because I…I care about you, and I know you’re all tough-girl-doing-it-for-herself, but I won’t be able to rest until I know you’re taken care of. So, please…”

He gestured for me to fill in the blanks, but I didn’t know how.

He was the talker. He had no problem expressing his emotions and wore his heart on his sleeve. It’s what made him so successful as a bar owner; he could connect with people. I didn’t have the same ability. I had a brain for numbers, a memory for taking orders, and lived my life one checklist at a time because if I ever stopped to look around, I might not be able to recover. I didn’t have it in me.

“My life has nothing to do with you,” I said eventually, and he merely shook his head.

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