Page 15 of The Wedding Shake-up

“Nope.”

“Then I guess we’re on.”

Fine. I ignore how unnerved I feel by her and unlock the lower door to the hut. I duck under the metal shutters, not wanting to lift them and reveal that we’re inside. Vacationers sometimes want morning drinks, and I’m not technically open until after lunch.

I flip on the lights since the hut is closed up and no sunlight can fill the place. Tillie has bent over to follow me inside. Once the door is closed, we’re perfectly alone. No one would have any idea we’re here.

She runs her delicate fingers over the rows of bottles shelved below the counter. The space is small, with no center island. The lower sections are filled with bottles, the sink, a dishwasher, and all the kegs for the taps. There are two short fridges. Glassware, napkins, bar towels, and other necessities go up high.

“This is a good setup for the space,” she says.

“I like it.”

She peers up at me. “Do you own it?”

“I rent this hut from the condo management. They outsourced it five years ago.”

She pulls bottles and sets them on the counter. “Where do you pee?”

“That bottle you just touched.”

She yelps and jerks her hand back. “Gabe! What the hell!”

I like that I got her. “Kidding. We can use the condo leasing office during the hours it’s open. After that, you have to hold it.”

“So I might have a long wait if I lose. Maybe I will hang on to an empty bottle.”

I’m already picturing this and have to shake the image loose from my head. “Just because Mendo said there were stakes, doesn’t mean we have to include stakes. No one has to work for anyone during tonight’s run. It’s a Saturday night. It’s going to be crazy.”

She stands up sharply. “So youareworried about losing.”

“No.”

Her gaze meets mine, and there it is again, that zip of attraction. Damn it.

“I think you are.”

“If we have stakes, I get help either way. It’s win-win for me. You lose a night of your vacation.”

“True.” She opens a drawer and extracts a bar spoon. “You work this by yourself? Every day? Every shift?”

“Always. This is my bar. If I don’t work it, it’s not open.”

She rummages through the utensils. “I haven’t thought through what I’m going to make.”

“Me neither.”

She sets a silver jigger on the counter and bumps the drawer closed with her hip. Her gaze fixes on my collection of glassware. “I think we should put on a real show.”

“You mean like tossing bottles and the whole nine yards?”

Her gaze fixes on my face. “Do you do that normally? Juggle glasses and all?”

“No.”

“You did last night.”

“Why did you ask if you know I do?”

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