Sex & Sours Read online

  Unfortunately, as all best-laid plans did, it fell apart at the exact moment it was inconvenient.

  The night had officially moved past after office hours to the evening crowd, and the bar was full. The sound of a glass breaking was not a welcome one but also not uncommon, especially in a crowd of this size. The second and third glass were, however.

  As I stepped out of my office, the problem was immediately apparent; Riley and Nathan were arguing behind the bar. I watched as Tiffany smoothly stepped between them and, with a few words, sent them to separate ends of the bar.

  When she caught my eye, I could feel the weight of her stare. One brow arched.

  She couldn’t have telegraphed, “I told you so,” better if she’d said it.

  Riley was serving closest to me, so I decided to start there, quietly asking her to step into my office. She was on the back foot before she even walked through the door. “I don’t know what the hell Nathan told you, but he started it.”

  I pointedly shut the door. “I haven’t been told anything. Would you care to explain what that was about?”

  “He’s poaching customers off me. He knew I was about to serve that rich suit, and he swooped in when I had my back turned. Now, he’s saying he won’t split his tip with me.”

  “I hardly think that’s an excuse to argue in front of the customers.”

  “But he’s a lying prick! Ever since I turned his ugly ass down, he’s had it in for me.”

  “I’d appreciate it if you lowered your voice.” There was no way I could send her back onto the floor like this.

  “Aren’t you going to do something about it?”

  “I’ll talk to Nathan. In the meantime, I think it would be best if you went home. I’ll make sure you still get paid for a full shift.”

  “This is bullshit. I have to go home?” Riley ripped her apron off, throwing it onto the desk. “Fine, whatever.” With that, she stalked out.

  Tiffany’s head snapped to me as I stepped in beside her behind the bar, tying an apron around my waist. After that first meeting, I’d moved from wearing my old uniform of a suit to the more comfortable all-black ensemble that the rest of the staff wore. Not since my years of actually working the bar had I worn a t-shirt with slacks. I hadn’t quite made the jump to jeans, however, and while I was tempted, I hadn’t put a pair on in years. I’d have to work my way up to that.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  “That’s twice you’ve asked me that. Can I expect this to be a regular occurrence?”

  “Only if you continue to be an ass.”

  “I’m still your boss, Tiffany.”

  “Oh, I remember. You still haven’t answered me.”

  “I sent Riley home, and it left us one short, so I’m stepping in.”

  I shouldn’t ask. It was my bar, and it would only invite her to volley back, but the question escaped anyway. “Do you have a problem with that?”

  “Only if you don’t know how to mix drinks.”

  “I’d wager that I’ve been mixing drinks for longer than you have.”

  Tiffany rolled her eyes. “Ok, hotshot. But as head bartender, I hope you’ll respect the hierarchy of authority.” She was baiting me on purpose. I shouldn’t have liked it as much as I did.

  There was definitely something wrong with me.

  Never in my life had I said or even remotely thought of using the words “yes, ma’am,” but I would be damned if they weren’t sitting at the tip of my tongue at that very moment.

  Not trusting myself, I cleared my throat and turned to take a customer's order, thankful that I had already familiarized myself with the bar as soon as I’d gotten the keys from Harry. I was also endlessly thankful that the team who’d installed the POS system had trained me on it before they’d left.

  * * *

  To be honest, it had been years since I’d worked behind the bar. Not since I’d opened my own because my time had been overrun with other duties. But this was where I’d started.

  I was a little surprised that I still knew what I was doing, but it came flooding back like muscle memory.

  Tiffany threw me a few quizzical looks during the first hour, keeping a close watch, but other than that, said nothing. Which surprised me most of all. I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop.

  Instead, we were able to work around each other seamlessly, weaving within each other’s space like a dance.

  It made me wonder what it might be like if we actually got along.

  5

  Tiff

  The early afternoon crowd on Saturday was sizeable, although not unusual for this time of year. The beginning of August always brought more people in, hoping to escape the humidity. Still, it was hardly enough to warrant Sam working behind the bar.

  I really hoped it wasn’t going to be a regular thing. That week had been a test of my patience in every way, and the only thing that had gotten me through was the fact that we always retreated to our separate corners. Me, the bar; him, the office.

  Then, last night, he completely surprised me. (He actually knew what the hell he was doing. Who knew?). I was almost, and I couldn’t fucking believe I even thought this, impressed. After what Audrey had told me about him, I’d done my own googling (although seeing his annoying smile plastered across the internet kept me from spending too long on it), and so I knew he owned at least three different bars. But every focus piece on the guy was about his inspiration (ugh) and his thoughts on the social contracts within the service industry (don’t even get me started).

  In interviews, he was that same smooth, charming bastard he seemed to be with everyone (except me), and it was clear that the interviewers fell for it, just like every single customer he served.

  They didn’t see what I did, though.

  Case in point.

  Christine was a regular on Saturdays, a retiree slash true crime novelist who liked to spend an hour a week sitting at the bar swapping stories with strangers. We’d seen her come in for the last two years, so, of course, she loved the fact that there was a fresh face.

  From the corner of my eye, I watched him move smoothly through mixing the drink, short shaking the ingredients before topping it up with tonic. He moved with ease, only ever tensing up when we crossed paths. Without fail, if there was even the slightest chance we might come into contact, he stiffened.

  I’d never met anyone so determined not to touch me, even though there was little to no room to avoid anyone else behind the bar. And yet, he managed it.

  I watched as she reached over to pat his arm. “You are a good man, Sam.”

  “It’s easy to be when I have such wonderful customers.” Sam’s bright smile brought a blush to Christine’s face. He could probably ask her to donate her firstborn, and she’d say yes.

  The effort it took not to roll my eyes could have fueled one of those old-timey blimps they used in the war.

  I knew this was an act. It had to be; no one was this nice. I could see in real-time the way men and women reacted to him, endeared from the get-go. I assumed that was the whole point of his little act. Get people on side early and then get whatever he wanted.

  Everything about him was carefully crafted for this purpose. From the slightly too tight slacks that hugged his toned ass and thighs to the shaggy haircut he was always combing his fingers through. He was perfectly casual.

  Just scruffy enough that you were disarmed. Just charming enough that you were drawn to him.

  He was the worst kind of slime ball, the one no one suspected.

  Of course, he was careful about it. It was only with me that he was even remotely antagonistic, and even then, never in front of the other staff or customers. I appreciated that, at least.

  He might be a smug son of a bitch who liked to make my life endlessly miserable, but he was professional about it.

  Audrey’s work schedule had increased tenfold in the last year, and she now had multiple successful launches under her belt. Still, between her workload as a senior liq
uor distributer and her loved-up home life, it meant we’d gotten less time to see each other. (Story of my life lately).

  So I was more than happy to see her walking into the bar that afternoon, her lovestruck fiancé in tow.

  “Hello again, pretty boy,” I said.

  Jackson smirked as he pulled out a chair for Audrey at the bar, then took the seat next to her. I wasted no time in passing them their usual drink order.

  “It’s good to see you, Tiffany,” he said.

  “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  Audrey linked their hands together. “We were in the neighborhood, and I wanted to say hi. Since I missed our usual Saturday morning get-together.”

  “First round’s on me, then.” I snuck a look over to Sam, who was thankfully in conversation with Christine and hadn’t noticed.

  Audrey visibly perked up. “Oh! Before I forget, I’m going to come by this week so you can sign the contract renewal.”

  I smiled back. “Sure thing.”

  The bane of my current existence materialized suddenly. “Excuse me?” Of fucking course, Sam had heard that. He stood stiffly at my side. “I believe what Miss Young meant to say was that as the new owner, I’ll be signing any contracts.”

  No, what I meant to say was, I hate you.

  I plastered on a smile, wishing my best friend didn’t look so gleeful. “Auds, meet Sam Cooper, Harry’s brother. Sam, Audrey Adams, the rep from Bespoke Beverages.”

  Sam’s smile was warm and inviting. My jaw clenched tighter. “Lovely to meet you, Audrey.”

  “You, too, Sam.” She mouthed “Miss Young?” to me while Jackson introduced himself. If Sam recognised him from the wildly popular tv show he starred in, it didn’t show. I rolled my eyes, and Audrey hid her smile behind her glass.

  Sam returned his attention to Audrey. “I apologize if that came across a little insistent, but considering that there appears to be a personal relationship here, I would argue it is a conflict of interest for Tiffany to be involved in approving any contractual obligations on behalf of my bar.”

  I could practically hear the grinding of my teeth. Made all the worse by the way even Jackson looked to be holding back his laughter.

  Just you wait, pretty boy.

  “Of course,” Audrey replied sweetly because she was ten times the person I was. “Would you prefer to make an official appointment? I can call you from the office on Monday.”

  “I’d appreciate that, thank you.” He shook her hand. “Nice to meet you again. Enjoy the rest of your evening.” He turned to me. “Tiffany,” he said before stepping away.

  I’d never met anyone who could weld a name like a challenge before, but Sam fucking Cooper managed it.

  Keeping a straight face, I attempted to exhale the frustration. My eyes narrowed at the two amused people I dared call my friends. “Not a fucking word.”

  Jackson’s smirk increased. “Seems you’ve met your match.”

  “One more thing out of you, and I’m going to elope with your fiancée before you get the chance to marry her.”

  He simply laughed. I missed the days when I still intimidated him. Those were good times.

  “Maybe it’s best if we leave you to it, Tiff. I don’t want to cause any more issues between you and your boss.” Audrey worried her lip.

  “Great, now he’s running off my best friend! I really, really hate him.”

  “Take it easy on him. You know how you are.” Audrey stretched up as far as she could from her seat to give me a half hug and kiss on the cheek. I caught Sam’s raised eyebrow from where he stood before saying goodbye to her and Jackson.

  There was no shortage of rich douchebags in the city. Possibly less than in New York or LA. But like. No shortage.

  And I had a very short fuse when it came to rich douchebags.

  Especially ones who drank past their limit and started verbally abusing the staff. When he reached over the bar and roughly grabbed my elbow, the last straw broke. “Out. Now.” The crowd around him parted as he yelled profanities on his way out.

  Sam was hovering behind the bar when I moved to serve another customer, and I waited for the inevitable comment, letting our eyes meet as I dumped the beer bottle in the trash.

  His quietly commented, “Nicely handled,” which wasn’t what I was expecting, but I shook it off and continued to work.

  Sam shocked me again as I was clocking out for the night. “I’m surprised you held out for so long. I was about to kick him out myself for his attitude.” It took me a moment to realize he was referencing the douche in a suit from earlier.

  What was his play here? Was he trying to butter me up for something? Oh, god, was he about to tell me I had to keep working? Hannah would kill me.

  Still rattled from the drunk, and now off-kilter from Sam’s compliment, I hid my confusion under a joke. “He kept calling me doll. If I didn’t throw him out, there would have been bloodshed.”

  Something resembling a huff, but may have actually been a laugh, escaped him. “You really hate pet names, don’t you? Tiffany.”

  “When they are that belittling. Yes, I do. Samuel.”

  As his eyes darkened, I felt a rush of adrenaline. Good. Let him know I could give it just as well as I could take it.

  When he took a step towards me, my pulse rose. Sam didn’t get close. Sam kept a respectable distance. So, why was I suddenly aware that this was the closest we’d ever been to each other? And was it just the blood rushing to my ears, or was his voice rougher than usual? “I believe that’s sir.”

  My mouth gaped open. “If you think I’m going to call you—” But he’d already walked off. Asshole.

  Every time I thought maybe we could work together, that maybe he was ok, he’d pull something like that.

  I checked the time. Dammit, I needed to get out of there to meet Hannah and her parents on time. At least dinner would take my mind off of work.

  6

  Sam

  Devon was clocked in and managing the crowd seconds after Tiffany had left. I would have preferred to have her working tonight, but she’d done a commendable job ensuring that the staff knew the menu well enough, and she’d been working grueling hours herself.

  Come to think of it, Harry may have mentioned her work ethic before, but it had always been lost when compared with his throw-away comments about how she had added new liquor to the shelf or made new arrangements with their distributors.

  Worryingly, Tiffany wasn’t my biggest issue right now. Since coming home, I’d been contacted for interviews and requests to comment on local events—my reputation proceeding me all the way from the West Coast.

  A notification sat ignored on the screen of my laptop, taunting me. Since returning, I’d refreshed my news alerts to include any reference to The Basement, as well as ones for my name.

  It had been a mixed bag so far. One piece with the headline “Out With The Old, In With The new” had been favorable, commending me on replacing the overly fancy menu we’d had in favor of simpler staples and an expanded craft beer and local wine selection. They were changes I was proud of, and thankfully, our customers were responding well to them.

  The only downside of this was that the journalist had all but declared a war between myself and another local owner, Stephen Pierce, whose bars represented a very boutique, exclusive style of service; going so far as saying that “it’s refreshing to see a bar embrace its customers and not treat them like peasants who could only hope to afford the lifestyle it promises.”

  On the other hand—because there was always an opposing opinion—another article had commented that the bar was losing its touch, calling me out for removing the more creative drinks from the menu and “completely negating it’s one redeeming quality, creative mixologist Tiffany Young.”

  It had been posted that morning, marking one week since I’d taken over, and had irked me all day. The sentiment was misguided, not to mention a little premature. Despite what the post said, the changes had actually boost
ed our business. Which was the point.

  However, it would be foolish of me to ignore the reviews completely. All information helped, and if these were the first of many comments like it, I’d need to prepare myself.

  Forcibly loosening my jaw, I sighed. If this was the start of a trend, I’d be disappointed. Tiffany had already taken the chance to preen over their praise, using it as an example of why I was wrong. In return, I’d explained that the success of a business could not rest on the shoulders of a single employee, but she’d simply pointed out that the last four years only proved that wrong.

  As a direct result of Tiffany having the night off, I’d made sure we were fully staffed for the night, although it had been a stretch to arrange everyone’s schedules. Apparently, they’d all gotten a little too used to Tiffany always being there and taking on their shifts when they had other plans. A habit I’d be correcting as soon as possible.

  “Everything under control?” I asked Devon. He was busy building a round of three drinks and kept his focus on that while he responded.

  “All good, boss. Got a few regulars who are asking about the old menu, but we’re handling it.”

  The customer Devon was serving spoke up. “I was just saying it’s a shame the menu changed. Tiff’s drinks were the only thing keeping me coming back.”

  “Hopefully, we can impress you enough to keep your business.”

  This was precisely why I didn’t want the bar to rely on a single person. If Tiffany left, the bar would lose its supposed “redeeming quality,” and then what? We needed to be able to run smoothly and successfully with or without her.

  So far tonight, we were managing it.

  The only complication, as far as I could see, was Riley. Or, more specifically, the lack of Riley. After her clash with Nathan the night before, I hoped she wasn’t acting out. I was willing to accommodate certain things, but that was the sort of behavior I wouldn’t allow to continue.