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13
The breeze driedSterling’s shower-damp hair more effectively than a hair dryer as he strolled into town, passing The Hideaway and waving to Bex, who was standing in the window. She waved back. He continued across the road to the pub, The Den, and went inside, blinking as his eyes readjusted to the dim lighting. When his vision sharpened, he looked around.
The Den was just as he imagined classic small-town pubs ought to be. A massive bar occupied the far wall, and behind that, liquor bottles lined an old-fashioned wooden cabinet. The walls were painted lichen-green and two blackboards took up much of the space to each side of the liquor cabinet. One was a drinks menu and the other listed bar snacks. A surfboard had the specials of the day scrawled across it. A number of long, narrow tables occupied the space between Sterling and the bar.
The atmosphere was different from that of the places Sterling occasionally visited in Auckland, which were well-lit with monochromatic surfaces. Feeling like a fish that had been picked up by a seabird and dropped onto dry land, he cautiously approached the bar. There was no one in sight. No staff, no customers. He cleared his throat. How was he supposed to order a whiskey if no one was here? He searched the bar for a bell or button and came up short.
“Excuse me,” he called. “Is anyone around?”
Something thudded behind a door he hadn’t noticed to the left of the bar, and a masculine curse followed.
“Be with you in a minute!” a male voice yelled back.
Sterling waited. A full two minutes later, a man shoved the door open and emerged into the room. The first thing Sterling noticed about him was the quantity of bare skin on display. A hairless golden chest and ropy arms, with board shorts that dripped on the navy carpet.
The man reached up and shoved sopping hair off his forehead. “What can I do you for?”
Sterling stared. The guy was working half-naked and soaked? He glanced back at the door. Yes, it definitely said the pub was open.
“Uh, mate? Can I help you?” the guy persisted.
Sterling’s mouth dropped open. He snapped it shut. “Whiskey, neat.”
The bartender checked his watch. “Bad day?” he asked, retrieving a bottle of Jack Daniels from a shelf and measuring out a single shot, which he slid across the counter.
“Just the opposite.” For the most part.
“Ah, we’re celebrating, are we?”
“Sort of.” Not in the way he’d expected, but then, he could never have predicted the turn today had taken. He’d shared something truly special with Kat, and while he didn’t know where they were going, he knew it wasn’t to be taken lightly. There was a connection between them. One he couldn’t understand, much less explain.
“Not much of a talker, eh?”
“No.” He sipped the whiskey, letting it roll over his tongue. He never drank to excess, but he didn’t waste his time with weak drinks, either.
“You mind if I do some work while you drink?” the bartender asked.
“Not at all.”
The man retreated through the side door and returned a moment later, wearing a dry t-shirt, with a shoebox in his hands. He removed the lid and started sifting through papers. From where Sterling stood, he could see receipts, handwritten notes, and a few printed invoices. The bartender grabbed a pen and spread papers across the counter, jotting notes in the margins. Then he double-checked something he’d previously written, set the pen down, cupped his face in his hands and groaned.
Sterling drank his whiskey and wondered whether he should ignore the man’s distress. This whole tightknit community thing was still new to him, and while he knew Kat would have jumped in and asked what was wrong straight away, he wasn’t like Kat, and he didn’t want to overstep. He’d never been one to make small talk with those around him. He wasn’t even sure he knew how.
Eventually, the bartender raised his head, picked up the pen and turned over what looked to be a letter. He scanned it, then grabbed some kind of financial sheet and cross-checked them.
“Damn it, I don’t have a head for numbers.”
Sterling, who definitely did have a head for numbers, leaned closer, trying to see what he was working on. The guy scribbled something else, and then rifled the papers.
He growled. “I know it’s here somewhere.”
Giving in to curiosity, Sterling asked, “What are you looking for?”
“My income sheet for the past month. I think I’ve got most of my incoming invoices here, but I’m having trouble with the outgoings.”
Sterling’s brows knitted together. “You own this place?”
The man nodded. “Sure do. Although my mother keeps us stocked. I just pay the bills, handle maintenance, and work the bar.” He held out a hand and Sterling shook it. “I’m Logan.”
