Page 2 of Accidentally Kidnapping the Groom

“He’s a lucky man,” the leather jacket guy says. “What’s his name?”

I should say it’s none of his business, but my brain blurts out, “Jay.” Maybe because the owner of Lola’s is so often on my mind. Maybe because I’ve been lusting after him the entire time I’ve been working here. I shake my head at my foolishness. Luckily the guy has left with his Sazerac and is now approaching the teacher ladies, who giggle as he talks to them. Maybe he can educate them about what makes Mojitos authentic.

The night continues its slow dance. I serve drinks, make change, listen to snippets of conversations that blur together like watercolors. Old Jim orders another whiskey, and I pour it a little lighter than usual. He’s here often enough that I know when to ease him off. The students finally pack up their laptops, leaving behind a decent tip and a table scattered with beer-stained paper napkins covered in what looks like physics equations.

Around nine, there's a brief rush when a van of skiers drives up and they all come inside. The bar fills with the sound of laughing, talking, and glasses clinking. Iris and I move in our practiced ballet. She gracefully wanders around the tables of the diners, giving me their drink orders. I navigate the narrow space behind the bar as I fill her orders and take the ones from the patrons sitting at the bar, as well as the tall tables just beyond it. Luckily, the patrons sitting there tonight are all locals and they don’t mind shouting their orders to me. I don’t have to go over to them in person.

Iris appears at the POS station section of the bar. “I need two gin and tonics, a vodka soda, and a guy at table nine wants to know if we have any Japanese whiskey.”

"We have Suntory Toki," I reply, already pulling glasses for the gin and tonics.

"We do?"

"No, but he seems like the type who won't know the difference if we give him Jameson and tell him it's a special reserve." And now I’m thinking about my boss again, because that is his full name. Jameson King. Known to everyone as Jay. My lady parts tingle, just thinking about him, and heat creeps up my neck and face.

Luckily, Iris doesn’t notice. She just laughs, then quickly composes her face into professional pleasantness as she returns to her tables. The leather jacket guy leaves with one of the teacher ladies. At least someone was impressed by his mixology knowledge. I smirk.

A glass breaks somewhere in the back of the bar, followed by a smattering of applause. I grab the broom and dustpan from behind the bar, but Iris waves me off. "I got it," she says.

"Thanks," I say, turning back to make another round of drinks for the skiers. My feet ache, and I can feel a headache building behind my eyes, but there's still three hours until last call. I grab a glass of water for myself and take a quick sip, watching the ebb and flow of people around the bar.

The thing about being a bartender is that you're both participant and observer in the nightly theater of human interaction. You're part of everyone's evening but also separate from it, keeping one foot in their world and one in your own. You hear their stories, their jokes, their problems, but you're never fully drawn into their orbit. It’s kind of lonely. But right now, when I can’t afford to be close to anyone, it gives me enough of social interaction to not feel completely alone.

Iris returns from cleaning up the broken glass, sliding behind the bar to grab more napkins. "Table nine says the Japanese whiskey is excellent, by the way. He's had nothing quite like it."

I shake my head, smiling. "Did you tell him it's a rare batch?"

"Naturally. Limited edition, aged in cherry blossom barrels. He's ordering another."

We share a look of amused conspiracy, the kind that comes from years of dealing with pretentious customers together. The jukebox has moved on to Bruce Springsteen now, and old Jim is softly singing along, slightly off-key but with feeling.

I set up for last call, restocking glasses and checking inventory. The skiers prepare to depart, leaving behind empty glasses and crumpled napkins, the debris of celebration. A couple at the end of the bar are deep in conversation, their heads tilted together, fingers almost but not quite touching on the bar top. I deliberately avoid listening to their words as I wipe down nearby surfaces. Some moments deserve their privacy, even in a public space.

And couples make me feel lonely.

I refuse to examine my feelings beyond that. There’s not time for introspection in my life right now. When you’re on the run, you must focus on surviving and take the good moments when they come.

Tonight is one of those good moments. Working with Iris and sharing laughter.

I look around Lola’s again. The door to the office in the back is open. In the doorway, Jay stands, watching me. His whiskey-colored eyes intense. I didn’t know he was coming in tonight. For how long has he been watching me?

My hormones stand at rapt attention, setting all my lady parts a-tingle.

I shoot him a quick smile and then pretend I have to do something at the other end of the bar.

Chapter 2

JAY

Ididn’t mean to go to Lola’s tonight, but I had to pick up some papers that my brother needs. For a couple of months, I’ve avoided going in whenever April’s working. She’s too much of a temptation. Even tonight, I vowed to just come in the back and grab the papers before anyone noticed I was here.

And yet, here I am.

Watching her like some stalker because a guy was hitting on her at the bar.

The usual Tuesday night regulars are thinning out and the party of skiers seems ready to leave. They’re a merry bunch, but it looks like one of them is the designated driver. The guy tries to herd them out the door, with mixed results.

April's behind the bar, moving with that fluid grace that first caught my attention six months ago when she interviewed for the position. Her blonde hair is pulled back in a neat braid, and she's laughing at something Iris just said, her entire face lighting up in a way that makes my chest tight and my cock hard. Even this far away, her delectable curves are a temptation and my hands fist with the need to touch them.

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