Page 67 of When the Storm Breaks
I keep my tone neutral. “I can grab him, or I can save you the wait and get your drinks myself.”
Just order. Get it over with.
She squints, trying to decide if she likes me more than Tanner.
“Drink!” one of them calls.
“Yeah, drink!” another echoes.
Their voices overlap, too high, too loud—grating against nerves that are already shot.
I pull out my notepad, already regretting this interaction, but stop short when I realize how stupidly simple the order is. Five of them. Four drinking the same wine. One drinking something different.
Tanner should’ve had this handled. Hell, he could’ve done it blindfolded—if he’d actually been paying attention.
I head back to the bar, grab fresh wine glasses, and line them up along the back counter.
I’m usually generous with a pour.
Not tonight.
Still, the last thing I need is a table of hammered, horny, middle-aged women shrieking about short pours. So I’m measured. I don’t rush.
Behind me, the kid finally sounds like he’s doing something useful—two cocktail shakers rattling against the counter.
I don’t know what the hell he’s been doing for the past two hours, but it sure as shit hasn’t been bartending.
I grab all five glasses, deciding I’ll make one trip for two reasons:
I don’t want to deal with the shrieking when some of them get their drinks and some don’t.
I plan to stay as far away from them as possible for the rest of the night.
I barely take two steps before Tanner slams into me.
“FUCK, TANNER!”
I slam the wine glasses onto the back bar, harder than I mean to. I’m honestly surprised none of them shatter.
“Watch where you’re going!”
The bar stutters into silence. The shift is immediate—chatter dulls, heads turn. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch every woman at the “girls’ night” table practically clutching their pearls.
Tanner looks like he wants the floor to open up and swallow him. “Sorry, boss,” he mutters, backing up so fast he almost trips.
I grit my teeth, breathing hard, trying to keep my voice level. I can’t deal with him right now—not with sticky espresso and vodka sinking into my fucking skin.
He scrambles for a towel, finally grabs one, and shoves it toward my chest. I snatch it out of his hand, slap it under the soda gun, and storm down the hallway toward the office.
I glance over my shoulder once—just enough to make sure my voice lands.
