Page 62 of The Lair

“You’re not doing all this for free.”

“Just this one time. Think of it as a trial exercise. If you want me to take care of the bar’s accounting from now on, we’ll settle on a rate.”

His nod is short but convinced. “Works for me.”

If Travis were literally anyone else, I would hug the hell out of him right now. He has no idea how much this little task means to me. To my mental health. To my self-confidence.

I spend the next hour crammed in a cushioned booth with Travis, my elbow grazing his bicep as I shift through all the documents and have a massive brain orgasm.

Eventually, he grabs the bags I’d set on a table earlier and sniffs inside. “You brought your lunch with you?”

I don’t look up from the calculator. “Our lunch.”

As if he suddenly didn’t understand the English language, he repeats, “Ours?”

“I figured you hadn’t eaten anything, but if you don’t like chicken parmesan sandwiches, I’ll just have yours for dinner later.”

“I like them.” A heartbeat passes. “Thank you.”

Travis? Easily agreeing to me managing the bar’s accountsandbuying him lunch all in the same day? He must be coming down with a fever.

After heating up the sandwiches in the oven, we eat in silence as I think of ways to make the accounting easier since he’s doing everything manually. No wonder he hates it.

“Would you be willing to get a computer software for it?”

Travis shakes his head. “I couldn’t figure it out.”

“You’re old, but you’re notthatancient.”

That earns me a glare, to which I respond with a smirk.

“I’d rather keep using my books,” he says, ignoring my jab.

“Okay. I can see you’re very methodical about cash accounting, but it can get tedious. How often do you go over the accounts?”

“Every Wednesday.”

“How about inventory?”

“Daily.”

His organizational skills don’t come as a surprise. In fifteen months, he’s never been late to work, has never sent out checks a day later than usual, and The Lair is pretty busy every day. It wouldn’t be if his managing skills sucked.

“You seem to have everything figured out,” I observe out loud. One look at the bar’s numbers and I can see we are making great profit, too, so his methods work. “If you want me to take care of the accounting in the future, just teach me how you do it, and I’ll adapt. No biggie.”

I catch him flexing his hands under the table. I still can’t believe he’s wearing my bracelet. A bet is a bet, I suppose.

“You’ll really do it?” he asks. “I don’t want to overwork you.”

“You won’t be doing such a thing. I’m a math geek, so you’ll actually be doing me a favor. I’m in my element here. Most people get a headache just thinking about finances and accounting, but I love staying focused like that. It soothes me.”

I’ve never considered finding an actual job in accounting because I don’t think I’m qualified enough. Sure, I’ve got several certificates under my belt—straight A’s in all of them—but I can’t compete with people who went to actual college for it.

So maybe that’s why my heart leaps at Travis’s next question. “What’s your rate?”

“I’ll have to think about it,” I say, wiping the sudden sweat on my hands on my leggings. “When do you need an answer?”

“Whenever you’re ready.”

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