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“I amnotin the mood for a bachelorette party,” Saint groans, popping tops off glass beer bottles.
Frowning, I look in the direction his eyes are and see a party of seven females, all wearing black tank tops with something written over their chests. One is wearing a silver sash.
March in San Diego isn’texactlytank top weather, especially as the sun goes down, but to each their own.
“You know they’ll tip better if one of you boys helps them,” Colie replies, sliding an order sheet across the smooth maple bar top.
Where Shayne is rough edges, Colie is girl next door. If either of the girls would be able to work with a group of women, it would be Colie, but she does have a point. A small group of two or three women, they usually did better with one of the girls. But a large group...
Yeah, she’s not wrong.
“Fine. I’ll handle ‘em,” I say, tapping the bar twice with the side of my fist before walking toward the group. They pulled two high tops together and as I near, I see their shirts draw attention to the fact it’s someone’s birthday.
Probably Sash Girl.
“Hey, ladies,” I say, stepping between a dark-blonde and a redhead, laying cocktail napkins on the tables. “My name’s Jake. What brings you in tonight?”
Sash Girl smiles and lifts both hands in the air. “It’s my birthday!” Most of the party echoes, “It’s her birthday!” as if this isn’t the first birthday celebration they’ve done as a collective.
“We’re doing a pub crawl and decided to start here,” Birthday Sash Girl says, leaning into the table. “It’s gonna be a good night, right girls?” More echoing happens, but I notice the blonde to my left isn’t as echo-y as the rest of the group.
She’s participating, but not at the same level as everyone else.
“Well, happy birthday. I’m going to venture to guess it’s not the big twenty-one, but I’ll still need to see some IDs, regardless if you’re ordering alcohol or not.”
“Oh. We aredefinitelyordering alcohol tonight,” a woman next to Birthday Sash Girl says.
Some of the ladies have clutch purses, some have card holders that are attached to their phones, but every one of them has a driver’s license on them. Once I’m sure everyone is legal—Birthday Sash Girl, legal name Megan, is turning twenty-five tomorrow and most of the group is around the same age—I take their drink order.
At the moment, they’re only interested in shots.
“I’ll be right back,” I tell the group, leaving them for the bar.
“Bachelorette?” Saint asks, shaking a cocktail.
“Birthday. And twenty-five,” I add, with a shake of my head. Twenty-one? Yeah. Thirty? Could see it. But twenty-five is an odd birthday to celebrate in this manner, but what do I know? I just serve the alcohol.
Lining up seven shot glasses, I expertly pour the tequila Megan asked for down the row. Once all are filled, I place them on a serving tray and head back through the growing crowd.
This time when I approach the table of seven, I move in between Megan and the friend who was “definitely ordering alcohol tonight.”
Lisa, I think her name was.
Mostly because across from them is the light haired, softer spoken one of the group.
Sophia.
As I pass out the shot glasses, I make sure to make eye contact with each woman—girls like when we do—and when it’s time to place the seventh shot glass in front of Sophia, I wait for her to lift her eyes.
And am immediately taken aback by the hazel depths.
“All right, ladies,” I say, my eyes still locked with Sophia’s. “Here’s your first round.”
“Aw, you should’ve brought one for you!” Megan says, leaning into me. Her perfume is stronger than I prefer on a woman.
Probably so the smell lingers all night.
“How about you bring us a second round, but do one with us?” Megan asks, putting her hand on my forearm. I glance down at her French manicured claws.
