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“You know you aren’t the boss around here.” He tries not to smile.
“Yeah.” I set the glass down and put my elbows on the armrest of the chair, before folding my hands. “Says who?” I tilt my head, pretending to look around. “Who is going to tell me otherwise?”
“There is no use in arguing with you.” He grabs the bottle of whiskey we were trying. “I’m going to see Dad.”
“Good decision.” I grin. “I would have done the same.”
He turns to walk out of the room, stopping to look back. “I don’t know if I told you this lately”—his voice gets softer—“but I’m happy you’re here.”
I swallow down the lump formed in my throat with his declaration. “I don’t know if I told you this lately, but I’m happy I’m here also.” He nods at me as I blink furiously to make sure the sting of the tears that are threatening to come don’t.
“Be back soon!” he shouts as he walks out.
“I shall be waiting with bated breath.” I chuckle to myself before opening the email and seeing a couple of new ones come in from some of the hotels around town. Last week, I went to visit them and pitched the idea of a distillery tour for their guests. We would do small tours of ten people, and they would get ten percent back on all sales. It was no skin off their back to put our flyer out with all the others, and in return, they would make money if people came. The tour would also include a tasting menu, which would hopefully sell some bottles at the same time. They each confirm that a group of ten is coming in next Wednesday, so I make sure I get up and write it on the board. I also brace because it’s not something I mentioned to Brady yet, which should be fun since he’ll be giving the tours.
The day goes by so fast that I don’t even notice it’s almost dinnertime until Brady comes in and puts a plate with a burger and fries on my desk. “Eat,” he orders, “then get your ass out there.” He motions with his head. “We’ve already got a couple of tables.”
The chef, who is a cooking student and is doing this for free just to get his feet wet, started today. We are doing a special two-for-one for everyone who comes in from four until seven, but are keeping the kitchen open until the max of nine, depending on how busy it is, hoping to get some of the diner customers. We have started on a small menu for the first couple of weeks to see how things go. The last thing I need is to go in the red even more. “We might have to hire someone soon,” I say, and he raises his eyebrows. “I said soon, I didn’t say tomorrow.”
“After, not now, we are going to discuss that.” He points at the calendar where I wrote my message in big letters. “Maybe tomorrow.”
“You’ll love it,” I say, picking up a fry and dipping it in the ketchup. “It’ll be fun.”
He doesn’t answer me, just walks out while I take a bite of the burger and groan. It’s so fucking good. I finish the whole thing before going to the bathroom, washing my hands, and stepping out to see about ten tables filled with people. I see Brady running back and forth from the kitchen to the front. “What can I do?” I ask, and he motions with his head to the bar.
“I wrote down the drinks I need,” he says, carrying two plates to a table of two girls, who smile up at him, one of them blushing. I get behind the bar, and in a matter of thirty minutes, Brady is standing beside me behind the bar, waiting to see who needs us. “This is good,” he finally admits.
“It’s still too early to tell,” I warn him. “As much as I want to toot my own horn”—I look over at the tables of people who are from out of town—“we need to bring in some of the locals and spread the word that way.”
“It’ll come,” he replies, “I have faith.” I’m about to answer him when I look over at the door and spot him. My heart speeds up and not from the nerves of everyone here, but from seeing not only him, but he’s with his parents, who are holding hands beside him. He looks around the bar and spots me, his face going into a smile. “I take it you’ll handle that table?”
I whip my head to look at my brother. “No.” My neck tingles. “You can do that.”
His face lights up. “Oh, but then I won’t have fun teasing you.” He picks up his finger and taps my nose. “You’re it.”
“Brady,” I hiss at him as I look over and see the three of them have taken stools at the fucking bar. Not in the front, nope, the three on the side, where it’s more intimate. “I’ll be back,” he says to me, turning and walking out from behind the bar from the other side.
I take a deep inhale and turn to walk to them; they are customers, after all. “Hi,” I greet them, looking at Quinn first, who smiles at me, then Willow—who has the biggest smile on her face—before falling on Charlie, who is looking at me with a sly smile. “Welcome.” I am going to remain professional and hope like fuck his parents don’t catch on to anything.
“Hey,” Charlie says, “I didn’t know you started serving food.”
“We just started,” I reply. “Something to help bring in people.”
“Well, it smells delicious,” Willow states, “and looks it also.” I turn, grabbing three little square menus that I made and laminated.
“Here you go.” I hand them each one. “Can I get you anything to drink?”
“I saw on your social media that you have a new blend,” Quinn mentions and I try not to think about that he was searching me online because he found out I was banging his son and wants to make sure I’m good enough for him.
“We do.” I avoid looking at him. “Let me get you a taster.” I turn and walk around, trying to act like I’m not dying inside.
I pour three small glasses before turning and placing them down in front of them.
“Can I get a soda water?” Charlie says to me, and I nod, shocked that he’s not drinking with his parents.
“This is good,” Quinn declares, taking another sip, “smooth.”
Willow picks up her glass. “Oh, it doesn’t even burn going down.” She looks at her husband. “I love this.” She throws back the rest of the shot. “Can I have another?”
