Sex & Sours Read online

  “It’s important to know what the competition is doing.” At her eye roll, I said, “What surprises me is that you didn’t like it.”

  This definitely got a reaction. “All that self posturing wank? Fuck no.” Despite myself, a huff of laughter bubbled out of me.

  “That’s a little hypocritical, considering your snobbery.”

  “You? Are you calling me a snob?” I watched as her body shifted, straightened, coiled like a wild cat preparing to strike. Dangerous.

  “Would you prefer the word connoisseur?” I’d meant it as a joke, but she only looked confused, like she wasn’t sure what I was doing. I wasn’t sure I knew for myself.

  Damn, she fascinated me.

  Despite her elitist attitude towards the drinks she served, it didn’t seem to extend to the competition. In fact, her comments led me to believe that she favored more relaxed environments, as did the way she carried herself. It intrigued me that she was so particular about her cocktails.

  I wanted to ask her about it. Despite everything, including my own sense of self-preservation, I wanted to get to know her better.

  Clearing my throat, I said, “Getting back to the subject at hand, what would you do if you had to change the décor here?”

  She paused, mid chew, looking at me like she was trying to decipher how serious I was being. Mind made, she swallowed and said, “It’s your bar.”

  Surprise showed on my face before I could stop it. It was the first time I’d heard her acknowledge that. Which was my only explanation as to why I then offered, “I’d still like your opinion.”

  She pulled her hand free of the gummy bag and wiped her hands on her jeans. She really did act like a grown child. Normally, I would have found it distasteful, but on Tiffany, it was oddly endearing.

  “Well, obviously, we have to take all this down,” she said, waving to the ceiling. “I’m not sure if you want to box it up and store it or decide with Harry who keeps what.”

  I eyed the collection, confused. “I’m sorry?”

  “I know it meant a lot to him,” she said as if that made any more sense to me. Why would Harry want a box of random items he’d collected at a garage sale?

  Maybe this was something I’d missed while I’d been away.

  I nodded, my only recourse when I had no clue what was going on.

  “And while the booths are nice, I think it’s probably time for an upgrade. Maybe some couches instead? Velvet or a leather Chesterfield. Something textural.”

  Interesting. I’d had the same thought. It would open the room up, allow seating for more customers, and couches would be a good alternative.

  Maybe working together wasn’t going to be a disaster.

  “Of course, we’ll need somewhere for the frozen margarita machine and the roulette wheel.”

  I blinked slowly and counted to ten.

  “And we’ll probably have to reinforce the bar if we want people doing body shots off of it.”

  “Tiffany,” I warned.

  “Geez, it was a joke. Lighten up, Sam.” She chewed on another handful of crisps. “I’d like to hear your ‘alternatives’.”

  I took another look at the room. The walls were nondescript; the light gray paint faded to a muted color that only added to the hollow nothingness that the place exuded.

  Warmth was needed. Woods, metallics, stone. Natural materials. Something earthy, elemental. A far cry from anything I’d designed over west.

  And maybe that was why I was suddenly reluctant to share my ideas with her.

  This was the first time in a long time that my reputation was on the line, that I was putting myself into something that could fail and would have consequences for me if it did.

  There were no safety nets this time. No backup plans. No business partners to weather the storm with.

  It was just me. And for the first time in a long time, I was nervous. Determined but nervous. And Tiffany was the last person I was comfortable sharing that with.

  Firmly locking away those feelings, I ran a hand along the bar, feigning deep concentration. “I think perhaps you’re right.”

  A spark ran through my veins as she visibly startled. It was nice knowing I could affect her composure as readily as she did mine. “Come again?”

  “We’ll definitely have to reinforce the bar.”

  For a moment, I worried her eyes would roll out of her head.

  12

  Sam

  The ache in my shoulder had intensified. I intended to get it seen to, but I hadn’t yet made the time. I’d been hoping that the thirty minutes of yoga I started every day with would be enough to keep the pain at a minimum.

  That strategy had worked before, but I’d been working a lot harder in the last few weeks than I had in a long time.

  I dug my fingers into the crook of my neck and massaged at the tightest spot, wincing at the pressure.

  I’d have to see someone if I wanted to keep working behind the bar.

  A smarter man would take it as a sign to stop messing about and get back into the office where I belonged, but I genuinely enjoyed getting my hands dirty again. It reminded me of my earliest days behind the bar and all the reasons that I’d wanted to own my own place.

  It also meant more time getting to know the staff.

  Now that it had been a few weeks, I’d gotten to know each of them, and I was glad to say that we now felt like a cohesive team. They’d gotten used to me helping out behind the bar and were, with one exception, warm and open. Devon was a godsend. He absolutely deserved the raise I’d given him.

  And while no one specifically made a comment to my face, I’d heard them fondly teasing Tiffany about our disagreements. While I could have done without the gossip, I’d missed this sense of family. I’d forgotten what it felt like.

  Gossip, of course, also had its benefits.

  For example, there didn’t seem to be a member of the staff, minus the new additions, that Tiffany hadn’t helped in some shape or form. For Devon, it was helping him move; Nathan said she was always the first to take on extra shifts, and Hallie had mentioned a princess costume situation at her kid’s birthday.

  My first instinct, sadly, was to believe that her favors were intentional. A ploy to get the staff on her side. It was a trick I’d seen used in the past. But the more likely, and more difficult to accept, reason appeared to be that Tiffany was a kind and generous person. It added another dimension to her that I couldn’t unsee.

  The only saving grace was that, while my own feelings were distressing, Tiffany clearly couldn’t stand me. I was glad one of us was smart.

  As the coffee pot brewed for the second time this morning, I eyed the large manila envelope on the counter. It had arrived yesterday, but I hadn’t had the energy to deal with it.

  Ripping open the envelope—and the bandaid—I supposed, I skimmed the paperwork inside, confirming that all the required signatures were there, waiting for my own to join them. Piper had obviously gotten sick of delaying the inevitable.

  So, this was it.

  The last nine years of my life diluted down to a thumbs breadth of paper.

  My bars, my work, my damned name. All signed away to my ex.

  For a minute, I stood still in my kitchen, contracts in hand, waiting for the familiar burst of anger to erupt in my gut, seep into my bones.

  But it never happened.

  On a deep breath, I realized I might have reached the end of my resentment for this whole mess.

  The hurt remained, but the hurt I could deal with. Live with.

  Although, that would be easier to do if I no longer had to deal with Piper. As her name popped up on my cell screen, I briefly cursed. “Hello?”

  “Hi, Sam.”

  Her voice was molasses, thickly sweet. I hated the memories that surfaced at the sound, late nights of her curled around me in bed; mornings spent discussing ideas for marketing campaigns or promotions. Not that long ago, I’d had everything I wanted. Now, I had next to nothing. “Piper.
”

  “You could at least pretend to be happy to hear from me.” Why? I wanted to ask. I would have, a month ago. I would have used the excuse to fight with her. Now, I was too tired to bother.

  “What is this about?”

  “I wanted to make sure you got the papers. I sent them days ago.” Of course, that was why she’d called. She’d taken weeks to get them to me and then barely waited twenty-four hours before needling me to have them signed.

  “Okay. Was there anything else?”

  “Jesus, Sam, we dated for years. That’s all you have to say to me?”

  “What do you want, Piper? I’m not the one who’s been stalling. If you’d signed the papers before I’d left like I had asked you to—”

  “I told you, I needed the lawyers to look over it, make sure both of us got what we wanted.”

  What we wanted? “What you wanted, you mean.”

  “Sam, we’ve been through this. I—”

  “No. I don’t want to hear it. Thank you for finally sending the papers. I’ll get them back to you as soon as possible. In the meantime, don’t call me.”

  “Sam.”

  I hung up.

  My day didn’t improve from there.

  “You want to add what to a drink?” Confused, I placed my glasses beside the now cold coffee on my desk. The cup was still full. It was the second cup I’d forgotten about today.

  “Saffron,” Tiffany repeated, her hip popped to the side.

  “Saffron.”

  “Yes.”

  “You want to add saffron to a drink.”

  “Yes.”

  “You want to add that to a drink. On my menu. In my bar.”

  “Yes! Jesus.”

  “No.”

  “It was the Jesus, wasn’t it?”

  I put my glasses back on, eager to end this conversation. “It wasn’t.”

  “Come on, Sam. It could be really good. Think of it as an experiment.”

  “I’m not letting you experiment on my customers.”

  She stared me down, challenging.

  “It won’t work,” I repeated to make it clear.

  “You don’t know that.”

  “It’s saffron. I can quite positively say it will not work in a cocktail.”

  A guttural groan. “Where’s your creative spirit?”

  “The answer is no.”

  Later, when I hoped Tiffany had calmed, I steeled myself for what I knew would be an uphill battle.

  “The menu needs to change. Research shows that bars in this area do better when they attract a younger target demographic. And—” I caught Tiffany rolling her eyes. “Yes, Tiffany?”

  “Well, Samuel.” Her inflection of my first name was thick.

  “Don’t call me that.”

  “I don’t know what you think you know about bars in this area, but we didn’t get a name for ourselves by aiming for tik-tokers and,” she shivered, “zennials.”

  “And why is that?”

  “What?”

  “Why shouldn’t I be aiming for them? Research shows—”

  “For fuck’s sake,” she interrupted.

  “That they are the fastest-growing market in the US, and their spend rate has doubled since last year.”

  “Do you know why?”

  “Not yet, but I’m sure you’re about to enlighten me.”

  “Because they go out to get wasted. And yeah, they might end up spending a bit of money in a single night, but only after downing drink after drink of cheap watered-down swill. Most of them aren’t coming in for a cocktail unless it has a dirty name. We’re about craftsmanship. Flavour. Inventiveness.”

  “No. That’s what you are about. This bar is about making money.”

  “I’m not going to let you change my menu.”

  “You don’t have to ‘let’ me. I’m the owner.”

  “And I’m the bartender. Best one around.”

  “Need you remind me.” This wasn’t the first time she’d referenced her awards, but it had also happened far less than I’d been expecting, and she’d only ever mentioned it when I pulled the “owner” card. Less like a brag and more a shield. A proof of worth. I put that thought away for later.

  Sighing, I changed tack. “What do you know about sours?”

  “I know no one makes them anymore.” Her pout was distracting.

  We locked eyes, then understanding dawned. She blinked slowly, heaving out a deep sigh. “I’m going to hate this idea, aren’t I?”

  A small smile spread before I could stop it. “In my short experience, I’ll wager yes.” I shouldn’t be enjoying myself as much as I was. “But you don’t have a choice.”

  “Yes, sir.” It was delivered in a petulant tone, but I’d be damned if hearing the term from her lips didn’t stir up some undeniable urge within me. Something that was immediately buried because Tiffany was both an employee and, if bar gossip was to be believed, already in a serious relationship. It wouldn’t do me any good to harbor any sort of attraction to her.

  “Don’t tell me,” she said, interrupting my thoughts. “You actually like sours.”

  “I think they’re understated.”

  “God, that just explains so much about you.”

  “Regardless. My point is that there might be drinks we personally believe would be better served, but that won’t do us any good if people aren’t buying them. We need to appeal to the right people, and right now, that includes college students and new adults.”

  “God help us all. Two dollar shots and Jägerbombs for everyone.”

  And while I shuddered at the thought, I didn’t let it show. Tiffany would likely never let me live it down. For all her bluster, she couldn’t convince me that this was a bad decision. The Basement had previously survived by the talent at her fingertips, but considering how frequently she came up with new ideas and how unfazed she was by mistakes, I had to wonder if it hadn’t been a mix of talent and luck that had gotten her this far in life.

  This bar would continue to be successful, but it would not be one because I made decisions in the heat of the moment. That was no way to run a business. Trends, analytics, data. That’s how it worked. Smart, planned business decisions.

  “I’m going to be making the changes anyway, and you can be involved or not. It’s your choice.”

  None of her fight left her, her entire body taut like a stretched elastic, but she relented. “Fine,” she finally said through gritted teeth. “It’s your bar.”

  “So glad we agree.”

  13

  Tiff

  “And then he turns it around like I’m the one who doesn’t know what they’re talking about. He’s just so …” I growled around the bite of honey chicken I’d stuffed in my mouth.

  Hannah and I were having Chinese take-out at mine because it had been a long week for both of us, and cooking was more than we had the energy for.

  Somehow, I still had the energy to complain about Sam.

  “Tiff, can we not tonight? I’m tired.”

  “Sorry. I don’t mean to make it worse, but … I just don’t understand what his deal is! One minute he seems like he might be alright, and then the next, he’s got the biggest chip on his shoulder and talking to me like I’m a child.”

  “Sam, Sam, Sam. It’s all I’ve heard from you for the last five weeks.”

  “Because he’s such a pain in my ass!”

  “KC thinks you’re weirdly obsessed with hating him.” Fucking KC. I had a sneaking suspicion she was in love with Hannah, but I kept that to myself. For her part, Hannah had started phrasing things she wanted to say but didn’t want to face the consequences for as “KC thinks.” She thought I hadn’t noticed. But I had.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Just that you seem to care a hell of a lot about someone you don’t like.”

  “That makes no sense. Of course, I’d care if I didn’t like him. Am I just supposed to not care that he’s a raging asshole?”

  Hannah h
uffed, her shoulders hunched as she pushes the bowl away from her. “Right. He’s the problem here. It wouldn’t have a single thing to do with the fact that you hate change.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You. Hate. Change. It’s why you’ve never been in a serious relationship,” Wrong. “Why you didn’t want to meet my parents,” Also wrong. “And why you hate that someone else is reminding you that you aren’t in charge.” I could write an ode to all the ways this was wrong.

  “My issues with Sam—”

  “I’m so sick to death of hearing his name,” she cut in.

  “Whatever is going on with my work,” I restarted, “has nothing to do with what is between us.”

  “Sure doesn’t seem like it.”

  * * *

  My own appetite disappeared. “What is really going on here? I know I’ve been complaining a lot lately, but this feels like something bigger than just my bad day.”

  “Why aren’t we living together yet?”

  Well, that came from left field. We’d never even talked about moving in together. “I didn’t know you wanted to. Is that why you’re upset?”

  “I don’t think you’ll ever be ready,” she said, and I tried to catch up to whatever conversation she was having in her head because it was clearly not the same conversation I was having with her.

  I opened my mouth to argue, but she halted me. “Actually, you know what I really think? I think you like being with women, so you can call yourself queer, but you don’t actually want to be with a woman. Maybe you just like fucking everything that moves, I don’t know. Or maybe you just like being bi because it makes you different from everyone else. You sure do love waving that banner around.”

  On instinct, I slapped my hand so hard against the coffee table that my glass tumbled over, shattering against the floor.

  Fuck.

  What in the world was happening right now?

  I took a long, steadying breath.

  Hannah had pushed up from the couch, arms crossed against her chest, and I abandoned my urge to clean up the glass to face her. Her glare was cutting. “You need to figure yourself out, or else you’re going to end up alone. You might think you’re so much better than the rest of us, but the rest of us live in the real world. Not everyone has the privilege of free speech, Tiff. Some of us can’t take the risks you do. Some of us have to face the consequences.”