Page 18 of Uxpectedly Ever After

“Most bartenders haven’t been running their own space since they were twenty-two.” She shrugs, but there’s no bravado in it. “How’s it going on your end?”

“They found the leak—some faulty line to one of the appliances. The crew’s fixing it now. We’ll start clearing buildings in the next hour.” I hesitate, then decide to lay it on her. “You’ve really impressed a lot of people today, including my captain. He wanted to know who ‘the general in the black shirt’ was.”

A soft flush climbs her neck, and she ducks her head. There’s a stray tendril of hair teasing her cheek, and I clench my fist so I won’t reach out and tuck it behind her ear. “I’m just doing what needs to be done.”

“That’s what makes it impressive, Freckles.”

She doesn’t roll her eyes at the nickname this time—just fixes me with a look I can’t interpret. There’s something crackling in the space between us since last night, a tension that sparks like static whenever we’re close. I’m about to push it further when my radio crackles.

“Priestly, we’re starting building sweeps,” Morgan’s voice barks. “Take Ember and the bookstore next door.”

“Copy that,” I reply, my gut twisting as I step back. “Duty calls. I’ll find you when your building’s clear.”

She nods, already turning to talk to a group of business owners who all look desperate for answers. I force myself to focus on the job.

It’s another hour before I can finally give Ember the green light. By then, it’s past seven, prime time for the evening rush. Clover’s short-staffed—it’s just Navy and another bartender, Chris, who just made it in.

“Josie called out,” she explains, flipping on the lights behind the bar. “Something about bad sushi and food poisoning.”

My shift technically ended an hour ago, but instead of heading home after I checked out at the station, I came back here. Now, I’m hovering in Ember’s doorway, watching Clover orchestrate a chaotic reopening. “Need a hand?” The question leaves my mouth before I can talk myself out of it.

She pauses mid-grab for a gin bottle, one eyebrow lifting. “You know how to bartend, Priestly?”

“I can pour a beer without embarrassing myself. And I’m a fast learner.”

She weighs me with her gaze, clearly deciding whether I’m more trouble than I’m worth. Finally, she nods. “We could use the help until the night crew gets here at nine. But you follow my lead.”

“Yes, ma’am.” I strip off my hooded sweatshirt, left in the black tee I had on underneath, then scrub my hands at the sink.

“You’ll work service well,” she instructs, pointing me to the side of the bar where drinks get made but not served directly to patrons. “Navy’ll take orders; I’ll handle the main bar. You coverthe basic stuff—beer, wine, simple mixed drinks. Think you can handle that?”

“Pretty sure I can manage pouring liquid from one container into another without a catastrophe.” I grin at the annoyed little twitch her mouth makes, and the way her eyes shine under the bar lights as she glares at me.

“We’ll see.” She tosses me a bar towel. “First rule: keep your station clean. Second rule: don’t overthink it. Third: when in doubt, ask.”

“Oh good, more rules.”

She flips me off and I laugh, but she’s the boss here. I may give her shit, but I’ll behave.

So for the next hour, I do just that—pour beers, pop wine bottles, mix easy requests—while Clover does her thing like a pro. It’s more intense than I expected: juggling multiple orders, staying in sync with Navy, making sure everything’s labeled right. Watching Clover is mesmerizing. She somehow keeps three or four cocktails going at once, chatting up customers, and managing this well-oiled bar machine.

The bar’s narrow, so we’re constantly brushing past each other, reaching for bottles or glassware. Every accidental touch lights up my skin. At one point, she slips behind me to grab vermouth and her back presses against my chest—I stifle a groan at the jolt of need that rips through me.

“You’re in my way, Priestly,” she murmurs, but her tone’s more sultry than irritated. The kind of heat that has nothing to do with annoyance. I move aside, but not before I catch the faint pink on her cheeks.

“Tight quarters back here.”

“You being built like a damn linebacker doesn’t help.” She snags a shaker from the shelf, her arm brushing mine. “You’re doing okay, by the way. For a rookie.”

Coming from Clover, that’s basically a standing ovation. “I have a good teacher.”

Her gaze flashes up to mine. It’s warm, almost surprised, and it makes my heart thud harder than it should. “There’s a table asking for an Ember Old Fashioned. Want me to show you how to make our signature drink?”

"Absolutely."

She shifts closer, placing herself between me and the bar so I have to look over her shoulder to see. The pressure of her back against my chest spikes my temperature about ten degrees. I bite my cheek to keep from groaning when her ass brushes against my dick. “Start with the glass—an Old Fashioned tumbler.” She sets it down. “Now a sugar cube.”

I manage to drop the cube in, even though half my blood is currently rushing south. The tight space and the scent of her shampoo—fresh and citrusy—turns my brain to static.

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