Sex & Sours Read online

  “Or?”

  “Nothing. Anyway, I’m her boss. All the options available to me are inappropriate.”

  “Not all of them. You could fire her.”

  “I’m not going to fire her. She’s the biggest asset we have. I know a dozen bartenders out west who would kill to have her mixology skills. Whatever little crush I have,” and damn me for using that word, “will just have to be put aside.”

  He hummed sympathetically. “You sure do have a strange affinity for putting yourself into difficult situations.”

  “Trust me, I know.” I paused. Deciding to change topics to another uncomfortable conversation I needed to have with my brother. “I spoke with Maria Ortega this morning.”

  “From middle school? She still works there?”

  “She’s the principal now. I, uh …” my sentence stalled. This was ridiculous. Harry wouldn’t be upset. Would he? “I talked to her about the possibility of sponsoring a literacy program. In mom and dad’s names.”

  “Sam, that’s …” My heart fell when he stopped. He hated the idea. Damn, I should have asked him first. When he spoke again, he sounded as raw as I felt. “I think that’s a wonderful idea. They would have loved that.”

  Suddenly aware that I’d been holding my breath, I breathed deeply, the relief almost palpable. “It’s the least I can do.”

  Tiffany had a knack for finding every one of my buttons and charging at them. It was surely the only explanation. Walking out of my office, I found her refilling the cheater bottles.

  Placing the menu, newly printed without my knowledge, on the bar before her, I asked, “What is this?”

  Sparing a single glance, she continued re-inserting a speed pourer on a bottle of sugar syrup. “A menu.”

  Outwardly, my expression doesn’t change. Inside, I was fuming. “And why is this,” I pointed to a new cocktail, one I knew to be a Tiffany original, “listed?”

  “Because I made at least a hundred of them last night, and our customers are tired of ordering off menu.”

  The altered menu stared up at me from the bar. What she’d said was correct. The receipts from last night proved her point, but that didn’t mean I had wanted to make the change immediately.

  “It’s one drink, Sam, not the end of the world. If they stop ordering it, you can take it off the menu again.”

  My customers, it seemed, were as stubborn as Tiffany. Yes, they had embraced a smaller and less complicated menu overall, but that didn’t stop them from always petitioning her for something special.

  Since I’d taken to working behind the bar, I’d had a front-row seat.

  Most tended to avoid the sickly sweet or overly bitter flavors of traditional drinks. They liked the smooth, the smokey, twists on the classics. I shouldn’t have been surprised. Tiffany was talented and passionate. Who wouldn’t want to taste what she had to offer?

  But giving Tiffany an inch was a risk. Soon, she’d be taking far more than a mile. And likely taking me with her.

  Abandoning the bottles in front of her, Tiffany crossed her arms, looking like a warrior preparing for battle. “Since the minute you started, you’ve not listened to a single one of my suggestions. What does that say about you as a manager? Or do you really think so little of me?”

  “That couldn’t be further from the truth.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “I …” I was caught. Well, shit. Compromise had to go both ways, and I’d been pushing back on Tiffany since the beginning. Heavy was the ghost of Piper’s memory. While I could ostensibly differentiate this as a different situation, letting Tiffany in on business decisions, giving her the opportunity to derail my efforts, made me uneasy.

  I was the only one taking a risk here. If the bar failed, it would land solely on my shoulders. Controlling the outcome was easier when I was the only one involved, but by shutting her out, I was wasting a valuable resource. Just like that article had said.

  “Next time, ask first,” I said, already retreating to my office.

  “A simple thank you would be nice.”

  Her laughter was muted by the closing of my office door.

  19

  Tiff

  Sam had asked me to open the bar that afternoon, saying a meeting had run late. It was … odd, not having him here. I’d expected to enjoy it more since it was the first time since he’d started that he wasn’t holed up in his office or hovering behind the bar while Devon and I prepped.

  Instead, I felt … unsettled. Like something was missing. Which was ridiculous. Clearly, I was going through some sort of early midlife crisis.

  Nathan was busy wiping down stools and tabletops while the rest of the team filled in the ice trays, restocked the glassware, mixed syrups, and jotted down what we needed to restock. Devon took receipt of a delivery, and I felt oddly … bored.

  Without Sam here to argue with me, what was there to do?

  Pulling out my phone, I restarted a video I found that morning. For weeks, I’d been devouring Youtube’s best attempts at cocktail advice. Some were better than others. More often than not, I was cataloging what I’d do differently, and a long list of video ideas had started to bank up.

  Maybe I should do this. I definitely could (at least, I knew I had the experience and knowledge). The filming part would be harder, but that couldn’t be that hard, right? Surely Jackson would have some tips.

  Devon reappeared at my shoulder as the video closed out. “I’ve seen that one. Have you tried Mr. BarFly? He’s funny.”

  “Not yet, but I’ll add it to the list. You ever watch that channel ‘ThisCocktailRocks’? Someone made a huge Long Island Iced Tea in a toilet yesterday. Total clickbait.”

  “That’s disgusting.”

  “I almost puked.”

  Devon chuckled, and I decided that it wouldn’t hurt to know what he thought of my plans. “What would you do if you had something like that?”

  “What? A Youtube channel?”

  “Yeah. I’ve been toying with the idea.”

  “You should do it. If anyone could make it work, it’d be you.”

  Pure dopamine filled my brain. This was how it always started for me. An idea turned into an itch, which wouldn’t be satiated until I acted on it.

  But acting on it would mean quitting and leaving all of this behind. Leaving my friends. Ever since I acknowledged that I wanted to move on, this had been the hurdle I’d yet to accept. Leaving would mean adventure and excitement, but I was conflicted. I loved the team here (and dammit, that actually included Sam now). I hadn’t ever planned to stay here forever, but that didn’t mean I hated every second of it.

  Once upon a time, this had been a part-time gig that I’d agreed to because Harry had been so hard up for employees and I’d seen the opportunity to have more autonomy. I’d seen it as a stepping stone, a layover that would connect me to whatever was going to come next as soon as I figured out what that was.

  Now, over four years later, I still had no clue. But had I ever really stopped to think about it? I felt torn. I loved this place, the staff, the familiarity, the routine. I liked bartending, and yes, selfishly, I liked the reputation I’d built for myself. I didn’t want to start from scratch, but that itch that I’d been feeling wasn’t going away. Change had been looming for a while now, and it was not going to let me hold it off any longer. I wasn’t really built for settling in. I never had been.

  So, what did I do? I’d never wanted to walk away before because I was so fearful that everything would fall apart without me. Which was disgustingly arrogant, I could see. Yes, maybe Harry would have had problems, but Devon and the rest of the team were amazing. They’d figure it out. And now they wouldn’t have to. Sam was many things (so many damn things), but the one thing he wasn’t was incompetent. He was practically the epitome of a competence kink. If he ever felt out of control, he never showed it, and that wasn’t something I could ever claim. Hannah, if she ever had met him, would probably have taken one look and then told me, “see? T
his is how you are supposed to act.”

  Devon jolted me out of my thoughts. “Does that mean you’ll be leaving us?”

  My hands had settled on the familiar wood of the bar top. Nathan could be heard singing along to the latest Jonas Brothers song playing on the overhead speakers.

  “Honestly, D. I don’t know. Maybe.”

  Devon had the grace not to look too surprised, but his sad expression punched me right in the heart. “Well, if you do, we’ll all miss you.”

  “You, too, D.”

  The decision solidified itself within me, clicking into place in the way all the right decisions do.

  Now that the what was in place, I only had to decide the when. Shit was definitely about to get real.

  20

  Sam

  Tiffany took a sip of wine, and a kaleidoscope of emotions, all of some form of disgust, played across her face. “What, and I mean this nicely, in the fuck is that?”

  We were seated at Stephen Pierce’s wine bar in River North, at his behest. It was unsightly, with supposedly French décor that was a frustrating mix of various European styles (and decades) and waitstaff who were apparently trained in the fine art of snobbery.

  It took an immense amount of energy not to roll my eyes at every bit of it. A habit I suspected I was learning from Tiffany.

  “A Grenache.” Apparently.

  She placed it as far from her as she could. “It’s an abomination, is what it is. That’s the most disgusting thing I’ve put in my mouth, and that’s a low fucking bar.”

  I swallowed a snort, fixing my features into nonchalance. I wouldn’t quite have put it in those terms, but I couldn’t disagree with the assessment. The wine here was terrible.

  So far, all we’d gathered from this visit only served to confirm my suspicions of Stephen Pierce. Clearly, he valued pretension over flavor, so the wine list was littered with organic and exotic styles that he thought would give them a modern edge.

  Unfortunately, he didn’t have the palette to discern great wine from blended swill, although his customers didn’t seem to mind.

  Which …

  Worried me.

  Because these were now potentially my customers.

  And while I reluctantly agreed to expand the cocktail list—nothing fancy, despite Tiffany’s protests—I didn’t want to become the kind of bar where you had to earn six figures to drink there.

  “Did you want to try this?” she asked, edging it towards me.

  “I’d rather not.”

  “No? Would you prefer something else? I saw a Pét Nat on the list.”

  I would rather drink prison wine. “No, thank you, Tiffany.”

  Slowly, her grin spread, brightening her features into near blinding proportions. It would take a stronger man than me to turn away. Not that I wanted to. Since I’d known her, I’d been drawn in.

  “Anytime, Samuel.”

  “Stop calling me that.”

  “Would you prefer Sammy?”

  I grimaced. “Absolutely not.”

  “Pity. I can see you as a Sammy.”

  “I can see you as unemployed.”

  Her boisterous laugh was out of place among the antique paintings and Gustavia chairs, but it was sunshine for my mood. I was becoming disgustingly addicted to drawing it out of her.

  “Come on.” I stood, ready to get out of there. “If we leave now, we won’t have to speak with him.” Stephen Pierce, it seemed, grew more insufferable with every added experience.

  “Finally, something we agree on.” She quickly followed me out, shrugging her suede jacket back on and pulling her hair out with one hand. It glittered like golden thread in the afternoon light, making her even more beautiful.

  I shook off the image before she could catch me staring.

  “So, I guess I’ll see you at this thing tonight?” she asked.

  The “thing” in question was an industry dinner thrown by the local restauranteurs' guide. It was purely a networking event, where owners, promoters, bloggers, marketers, you name it could spruce themselves and make contacts.

  In my case, it was my first real opportunity to mingle with the competition and ensure that everyone knew I meant business.

  “Sam?” Tiffany was looking at me expectantly. The ring around her eyes flared amber in the light, highlighting the way her pupils dilated.

  I really had to get myself sorted out if pupils had started to do it for me.

  Clearing my throat, I nodded; short, shaky jerks that felt like an obvious sign of how off-balance I felt. There were at least two hours before dinner. I’d need to pull myself together by then.

  In a show of non-favoritism, they had crammed all 150 of us into a function room that was semi-connected to one of the oldest restaurants in the city. Of course, said restaurant was owned by one of the attendees, but I decided that commenting on that would be a non-starter.

  We made the rounds, greeting as many as we could. I was introduced to far more due to Tiffany’s connections, an added bonus of her joining me. Most of the people in the room maintained a certain level of distance, which I determined to be either competitive jealousy or outright dismissal. But a few stood out as welcoming and friendly.

  One, in particular, greeted Tiffany joyfully, with a friendly hug and big smile. “Has he accosted you yet?” the statuesque brunette asked, her cut and dry tone the first sign that she was both a close friend and seemingly as enthused to be there as we were.

  She stood taller than Tiffany, who had shocked me by not wearing jeans. Not that I had expected her to, but I hadn’t realized until tonight that I’d never seen her in anything else. Her hair fell across an exposed shoulder, her delicate frame otherwise draped in a loose, deep rust-colored knitted dress that moved gracefully around her. She was, I noted amusingly, still in her usual pair of flat black boots, looking comfortable and effortlessly beautiful.

  My black velvet suit jacket and charcoal shirt now felt like I was trying too hard.

  “No, thank God,” Tiff replied. “But he’s slinking around here somewhere. You know what Pierce is like.”

  Her friend made an unimpressed face. I was immediately a fan. “Unfortunately.” She brightened, turning to face me. “I take it this is the new boss I’ve been hearing all about?”

  I shook her hand. “Sam Cooper.”

  “Quinn Fisher, nice to meet you.”

  “The pleasure’s all mine. Are you having a good night?”

  “As much as I can at these things. Tiff’ll tell you; I’m not really great at all this crap. I’d rather be home. Or working.”

  “Well, I’m glad you decided to join us tonight, at least so I could have the pleasure of meeting you.”

  “Alright. Looker and a charmer, huh? As long as you aren’t a prick, we should get on fine.”

  “Trust me, he’s not like the rest,” Tiffany said, her tone unreadable. I couldn’t determine whether that was a compliment or not, but it appeared the best I would get from Tiffany, and her friend seemed pleased, so I let it be.

  “It was good to meet you, Sam. I better finish doing the rounds so I can get out of here. Good luck with this lot.” Quinn waved her hand at the room.

  I watched her continue through the crowd and asked Tiffany, “Old friend?”

  A waiter passed with an empty tray, and she scowled before answering. “Quinn? Oh, yeah. Does it surprise you to know that I have friends?” she teased.

  She chuckled at the flat look I gave her in lieu of a response.

  “Oh, come on. Not even a smile? You’re always such a tough crowd, Cooper.” Her attention wavered when another waiter passed by without stopping. “You should know that not everyone is like Pierce and his buddies. Quinn’s one of the good ones.”

  “Do they really hold that much sway here?”

  “They don’t have their fingers in every pie, but they do make it pretty much impossible to go up against them without them swinging their influence around, which usually ends up just hurting everyone.
Pissing them off isn’t a good business idea, no matter how good it feels.”

  “Hmm.”

  “What?” She abandoned her search for a waiter, now focusing intently on me. “That’s your, I’m silently judging you ‘hmm’.”

  “I have a judging ‘hmm’?”

  “Honey, you have many.” Honey was new. I didn’t hate it.

  I felt a grin peek through, and she looked pleased with herself. “So, what is it?” she asked.

  I returned my attention to the room, taking in the very white, very male crowd. And feeling my own contribution acutely. “There is an unfortunately disproportionate demographic here.”

  She barked out a laugh. “Oh, yeah. Total Mr. Banks situation.”

  My mind sifted through the possibilities, merging what I knew to be Tiffany’s unique brand of audacious humor with the people in the room. Then it occurred to me. “Are you really referencing Mary Poppins to describe ... this?”

  “You can’t tell me those old dudes that run the bank aren’t an exact replica of this room.”

  I wasn’t quite quick enough to stifle my laugh before it escaped, and the surprise that showed across Tiffany’s features was immediate. And then, she smiled. Soft. Genuine. Like I’d given her a gift.

  A hint of blush graced her cheeks, a dusty rose color that could be seen touching the high planes of her cheekbones, sharply curved to fit perfectly in a palm. My own face heated.

  I was about to retort with an unprecedented quip of agreement when the very man we’d managed to avoid earlier made his way over to us, his navy suit having just enough weight to be expensive if cut a little too closely for a proper fit.

  “Mr. Cooper! I thought that was you.” He shook my hand, ignoring Tiffany at my side. I couldn’t see her expression, but I felt her silently seething.

  Pierce dropped a heavy hand to my shoulder, and I tightened my smile so that I wouldn’t grimace. “It seems I missed you this afternoon. How did you like my place?” For someone who’d spent a lot of time calling me out in public, he was awfully friendly. Pretentious dick.