Page 3 of Sirens
Your ass.
Kurt propped his pristine tray against his also-pristine apron rather than resting it on Maggie’s not-so-pristine counter to wait.
After a blur of pouring, spilling, swearing, shaking, squeezing, and more swearing, she handed Kurt a drink thatalmostlooked like the bougie Orange Julius she’d glimpsed ahead of the seventeen-page-long story that preceded the recipe.
And Kurt looked—dare she say it—mildly impressed.
Without so much as disapproving snort, he set a cocktail napkin on his tray and whisked it away.
Spattered with an unholy slew of booze and mixers, Maggie excused herself under the guise of restocking her garnish caddy and slipped into the walk-in fridge.
The stainless-steel door was cool against her forehead, the sudden insulated quiet like a little pocket of heaven after the chaotic jazz of clinked glasses and conversation.
She was so. Damn. Tired.
And not just because this was the first job that required her to stand on her feet for hours at a time since working the Sabrett hot dog stand at Jones Beach the summer after her sophomore year of high school. At least then, she’d had sixteen-year-old cartilage and ready access to funnel cakes.
No.
Maggie was mentally exhausted from trying to remember drink orders and bartending techniques she had learned on the fly. Emotionally pulped from being in a new place after hastily leaving behind everything familiar. Even if that familiar wasn’t especially pleasant.
“Mads?” Kurt shrilled through several layers of metal and insulation.
Right on fucking cue.
Maggie thumped her head on the other side of the door. “Yeah?”
“The customer at table twelve sent his RGF back. I’m going to need you to remake thaton the fly.”
Acronym happy, unsolicited nicknamer,anda kitchen lingo dropper.
If this guy were any more determined to sabotage her, she’d be tempted to date him. He seemed to be her type.
“Oh, and I just put in an order for three Old Fashioneds and a Lemon Drop when you get a sec.”
When you get a sec.As if someone was wandering around handing out buckets of unoccupied time.
Fuck. That.
Reaching for a bottle of seltzer from a nearby crate, Maggie knocked the cap off on one of the shelves and took a swallow. The aggressive bubbles made her eyes water, but successfully banished the dangerous clench at the base of her throat. She stashed it behind a bin of lemons and shouldered her way through the door.
“Where is he?” she asked.
Kurt blinked at her, his sad little soul patch dipping as his mouth formed the perfect O of a Christmas card angel.
“Who?” he asked.
“The guy who sent this back,” she said, snatching the drink from Kurt’s hand.
Even now, the condensation-kissed glass looked serenely golden, the pillowy cloud of heavy whipping cream and egg white atop it as fresh as new-fallen snow.
It was ethereal.
Celestial.
Goddamn it, she had evenmeasured.
“That’s him,” Kurt said, inclining his head toward the water-view side of the dining room. “In the yellow shirt.”
