Page 2 of Icy Pour

Tomorrow is a new day.

Tomorrow I’ll worry about tomorrow.

But today? Today I need a drink.

CHAPTER 2

WALT

Ihate that goddamn bell.

My pulse races like a car at the Milwaukee Mile every time it rings. Maybe I should take it down? Smash it with a hammer? Run it over with my truck?

I shake my head. No. It’s for security. It’s practical. If I’m in the back, I need to know if someone comes in. It doesn’t matter that every time I hear it, I question if I made the right decision. Then again, my life has never felt right in any way, shape, or form—might as well keep that streak going.

I fumble around looking for the Bartender’s Guide book that has seemingly gone missing. Leave it to me to open a bar with zero experience and lose the damn recipes. What kind of idiot does that? Sure, I spent every summer as a kid running around the one my grandpa owned, but being a willing observer doesn’t exactly qualify me to be a business owner, much less pour anyone a drink. Not to mention, the bartender I hired is a no-show today.

Maybe I only offer beer today?

Maybe I should close up and try again tomorrow?

Shit…what am I doing here?

A lone woman takes a seat at the bar. Too late now.

“What can I get ya, miss?” I say, setting a napkin down in front of her.

“Vodka tonic,” she chokes out.

“Coming right up.” My shoulders relax as I turn to make her a drink. Thank god; that’s one I know how to make.

Grabbing a glass and scooping the ice, I set it on the bar top, pouring the liquor and topping it off with the soda gun.

“You want to start a tab?” I ask, sliding the drink toward her.

“Yeah, I’ll be here a while,” she says. “Put it under Bethany ‘found out my husband’s cheating on me today’ Miller.” My heart plummets. I can’t fathom what that must feel like.

Being alone means there’s no risk of that happening to me. There’s also no risk of anything else happening either. Anything good or bad or exciting or scary or exhilarating. But still…no risks. That’s how I live. It’s how I have to live. There’s no other option.

Well, unless I count the risk of opening this damn bar. But money is a risk I can take.

It’s everything else I can’t afford to lose.

“Stay as long as you like. First one’s on the house.”

She nods and tips her glass my way as I head down the bar to start a ledger for the day. Picking up my pencil, I jump out of my skin as that damn bell rings again. My stomach churns knowing I got away with one drink, but now a new game of chance is upon me.

I look up to see a man step through the threshold and walk directly toward me. His worn brown leather jacket, a stark contrast to the slicked back blond hair with one strand falling across his forehead almost as if it’s pointing to the deep dimple in his cheek. The jukebox flips to ‘Careless Whisper’, the smooth notes of a saxophone echoing through the bar as the gentleman takes a seat at the barstool right in front of me. My eyes fix on his—they’re piercing blue like the water on the lake mid-summer, taking my breath away. I notice the way his rough hands remove his jacket and place it on the back of his chair, revealing a set of coveralls with a crisp white t-shirt underneath.

He clears his throat as he turns to face me. Shit; I’m staring. My knees damn near give out as I realize I’ve been fixated on this stranger in my bar.

Goddammit, Walt. No. Risks.

But fuck if he doesn’t look like a living, breathing risk.

I push my shoulders back as I place a napkin before him. “What can I get you?”

He blinks his long lashes at me a few times. “Cheapest, coldest thing you’ve got on draft.”