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When they did, Morgan moved to greet them. “How were the massages?”
“Heavenly.” The one on the left—about fifty, red-framed glasses, blond hair in a messy tail—sighed. “I’m surprised either of us can sit upright.”
Her companion—dark mop of curly hair, sleepy brown eyes—laughed. “But we’ll manage, because we’re topping things off with those delicious apricot coladas.”
“Got you covered. Charge to your room?”
“Please.”
Morgan nodded approval when Bailey handed her a dish of bar snacks. “We use brandy snifters for these,” she told Bailey as she added ice to the blender. “Build and blend. Apricot halves in heavy syrup. Pineapple juice concentrate, coconut milk, rum, and light crème de cacao.”
“You didn’t measure any of it.”
“I did, but by eye and count.” She hit the switch.
“Love that sound,” the brunette said. “Pretty quiet in here tonight.”
“Midweek quiet, and a private party on the Club Level.”
“And they didn’t invite us,” the blonde said.
“Their loss, our gain.”
Morgan poured the drinks into the snifters, garnished each with a slice of pineapple. “Enjoy.”
Quick on the uptake, Bailey washed the blender. “I get the by eye, but not the by count when you’re pouring.”
“I use a four-count. With my pours, four seconds an ounce. You should take home one of the empties, and you can borrow a jigger. Use water. Measure it first, an ounce, ounce and a half, two ounces into a glass. Use another glass to practice your free pour. By eye and count.”
“Like one-Mississippi, two-Mississippi.”
“That’s it. You’ve got people skills from serving. They’re not much different behind the stick, but you need to study, get familiar with different types of alcohol, different kinds of drinks, and basic lingo.”
“I know some of it just from serving.”
“You’ll pick up the rest. If you have a question, ask.”
“I have one. How did you know they’d sit at the bar?”
“They were in last night and told me they liked to sit at the bar because you can meet interesting people.”
They filled table orders, with Morgan talking Bailey through the process.
A quick study, Morgan thought again, and had to stop herself from her ingrained habit of backbarring as she went.
She caught a glimpse of Liam in the archway with a woman who had about a yard of red hair and what looked like barely a yard of black dress.
And heard Bailey’s mumbled, “Shit.”
She glanced over. “Problem?”
“No. I—I know her, the one coming in with Liam Jameson. We went to high school together.”
“Let me guess. Mean girl.”
“Oh God, so much mean in that girl. At least I know I won’t be working her table.”
“Calm,” Morgan reminded her. “They’ll come to the bar first, give me an order, then move to a table. That’s Liam’s way.”
