Page 26 of The Barkeep and the Bro

Under her fierce look and tart language, her eyes brimmed with major mother hen energy.

“Your streaming queue must be miles long at this point,” she said.

Ellie shared her password with me, but I never got around to using it. I would rather read or work outside, but the thought of laying on my couch binge-watching anything sounded very nice at the moment.

During my multi-decade tenure managing Stone’s Throw Tavern, I’d taken a total of ten sick days, and each time, I was really sick. Like, a step away from the ER, can barely stand up sick. I had a rule: if I was able to come into the office, then I was able to stay.

“I’ll take some medicine and stay upstairs.”

“Do you want customers to hear you coughing and sneezing above their food?” Natasha cocked her head. She hit me with a business reason. “Charlie already had one customer glance upstairs and hold his drink close.”

“Is that true?” I asked him.

“Yeah, Boss.” He didn’t try to sugarcoat or rationalize it away. He was Team Natasha on this one. “If you’re just doing business stuff today, you can do that from home on your laptop.”

It was hard to argue against logic when I felt like complete shit. My resolve was slipping as their reasoning made more and more sense in my congested head.

“We won’t burn the place down,” Natasha assured me, rubbing my shoulder as she shoved me in the direction of the exit. “Though if we do, that’d be a sweet insurance payout for you.”

I wasn’t too sick to glare at her.

“Kidding,” she said.

As soon as I sat down at an empty table, my cold kicked it up a notch. Pounding pain slammed my skull, and my throat burned in agony. Charlie appeared with my coat and laptop bag, a sleek leather number the Single Dads Club got me for my fortieth birthday.

“Do you need help getting home?” he asked.

“I got it.” I stood up, refusing to be so helpless in front of my staff. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Call me if you need anything. I can be back here in five minutes.” I turned to face Natasha and Charlie just before I exited. “Don’t make me regret this.”

* * *

I did not regret this.Not at all. Oh, rest felt nice. Lounging on my couch felt nice. Binge-watching television felt really nice. I drifted in and out of sleep throughout the afternoon, luxuriating in the ability to not do anything. Was this what people in office jobs experienced? They worked from nine to five, but then they relaxed over the weekend without a care in the world. They took a sick day and still got paid.

Lucky pricks.

When I awoke from my naps, I texted Natasha for updates. Stone’s Throw Tavern had not burned down. Business was flowing as usual, according to her, with the normal amount of low Tuesday traffic. Which was to say, I picked a good day to get sick. She sent a picture of the main room and one of Charlie at the bar, flashing that confident smile. Crushing it, she said of him.

I’d had enough colds in my life to track their trajectory. My sore throat and stuffed-up head got worse throughout the day, turning me into a disaster zone from the neck up. Somewhere during one of my naps, a knock at the door on TV woke me up.

I opened my eyes, and the screen was black save for a message that asked if I was still watching. Outside, the sky had transitioned to night without warning. Another knock.

Someone was at my actual door.

I pushed off the quilt—handmade by my grandmother—and stumbled off the couch. When I opened the door, I was convinced I was in a cold medicine-induced dream state. Because Charlie Porterfield was standing there looking ridiculously cute, bundled in a coat and hat. His confident smile sent warm sparks through my recuperating body.

“Hey, Boss.”

“Fratboy?”

“In the flesh.”

And what beautiful flesh it was. The cold had given his skin a soft glow and made his lips extra red.

“What are you doing here? Is the bar okay?” A million horrific scenarios played in my head.

“Everything’s copacetic. Relax. I was on my way home, and I wanted to see how you were holding up.” He held up a paper bag. “I brought you some chicken noodle soup from this place called Caroline’s. Looks like good greasy spoon food.”

As soon as the savory, brothy aroma from the bag hit my nose, my stomach cried out for more. Charlie had excellent instincts. Caroline’s was perfect diner food, way better than the oversalted canned soup I’d been having.

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