Page 3 of Enemy Kisses

By my calculations, I have spent $237.90 so far out of my budget cleaning the mess left behind by your patrons. Not to mention the numerous hours my staff and I have devoted to the cleanup, which should be spent preparing for our day.

Does he expect me to pay for the cleanup? There’s no proof my patrons made the mess, and what the hell does he expect me to do about it, anyway?

Please see the attached photographic evidence.

I click on the images and scroll through a dozen photographs of vomit, trash, and what I’m assuming are urine stains on the stoop and along a wall, but really could be anything and not necessarily caused by patrons from my pub. I come to the last photograph, which clearly shows a pile of napkins and coasters. Well, shit. They’re definitely from my pub. I click back to the message and continue reading.

I kindly ask that you take appropriate measures to monitor your patrons after they leave your establishment to ensure they do not linger in the area and cause such disruption to the surrounding businesses. If the issue does not improve, I’ll be forced to take things further and contact our local council member.

What the hell does he expect me to do?

“Knock, knock.” Callahan’s voice breaks the silence in my office. He steps inside and places a glass of whiskey on my desk. “A nightcap.” He takes the seat opposite my desk and studies me. “What’s up?”

“We’ve pissed off the new neighbors.” I tilt my head toward the new café next door and spin my laptop around so my night bar manager—and long-time friend—can read the email for himself.

He’s quiet as he reads, and I take a sip of whiskey, enjoying the burn as I swallow. “Shit. He sounds like he’s got a stick up his ass. What the hell are we supposed to do about our patrons once they leave here?”

“My thoughts exactly. Though, to be fair, they shouldn’t be leaving here with bottles. I’m not exactly sure how that’s happening, but it’s easy enough to stop. I’ll send a message to our team about ensuring patrons don’t leave with bottles. The rest isn’t our problem, and we can’t be expected to do anything about it.”

He nods and sits back in his chair, resting his ankle on his opposite knee. “Matthew stopped by again today. I sent him home with enough ingredients to make tacos for his family.”

“Thanks. I meant to have it ready for him, but got caught up filling in downstairs and lost track of time.” I rub my chin, not sure how to broach an issue that’s been bothering me.

Callahan lifts his chin. “What’s up?”

Sitting forward in my chair, I lean my elbows on my desk. “Have you noticed anything strange about the stock?”

His brows furrow, and he takes a moment to think. “We seem to be going through more of the top-shelf stuff over the past couple of weeks.”

I nod. “Exactly. But I haven’t seen an increase in the reconciliation reports.”

“Shit.” He sits straighter. “Do you think someone’s stealing product?”

“That’s exactly what I’m thinking.”

“I’ll take a closer look at the books and inventory. Then I’ll check the system for any reporting issues.”

“Thanks. Keep it between us for now. I don’t want to alert anyone that we’re aware of what’s going on until I know for sure.”

“No problem.”

We spend the next thirty minutes shooting the shit over whiskey. He leaves and I focus back on the email. I hit reply, then type.

Not my problem.

CHAPTER3

–harriet–

I watchQuentin tuck Judy under his burly arm—her head barely coming up to his armpit—and leave, then slump heavily in my chair and open my laptop to check emails and place a supply order. I scan my inbox to check if the owner next door has responded to my email.

Yep, there it is.

A weight lifts off my shoulders knowing that he’s going to take action, and we’ll no longer have to deal with the mess. I click on the email to open it.

My eyes nearly pop out of my head, and I’m pretty sure steam is coming out of my ears. Three words.Three simple wordswhich aren’t normally offensive are waiting for me on the screen.

Not my problem.

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