Page 30 of Good Graces

Not so much as a glance in my direction.

And that pisses me off to no end.

God, what the fuck is wrong with that woman?

I should let it go. I know I should. But every time I see her, it’s like a live wire sparking under my skin. Like my whole body tenses on instinct. Like she flipped some old switch I forgot I still had.

And worse, she knows it. Knows exactly how to dig her nails into my brain and squeeze until I’m thinking sideways.

I shake it off, shove my sunglasses higher on the bridge of my nose, and step onto the pool deck. It’s early still, and the place is calm. A few retirees drifting through their laps, toddlers squealing in the shallow end while their moms half watch, half scroll.

At least today won’t be a total disaster.

But when Robbie flags me down, my stomach dips. I know, the second I see that apologetic grimace on his face, that I’m about to get screwed.

“We’re consolidating coverage,” he says, nodding toward the pool. “Barely anyone swimming, so we’ve got Kayla running both stations.”

I glance toward the shallow end. Kayla, the youngest lifeguard on staff, is already perched like she owns the place, grinning like she won something.

“And?” I ask, dread curling in my gut.

Robbie claps a hand on my shoulder. “That means you’re on drinks duty.”

I blink. “No.”

“Yes.”

I exhale hard. “I hate serving drinks.”

“I know.” Robbie’s already walking off, grinning like this is the highlight of his day. “Think of it as character-building, Mercer.”

I grumble a curse under my breath but don’t argue. What’s the point? I’d rather not miss out on a full shift again. Yesterday, when they shut the pool down early, I lost three hours of pay. Not exactly devastating, but still annoying as hell.

I’m here to make money. So, if I have to play waiter for entitled assholes, then fine—I’ll do it. Although most of them can’t even be bothered to say please when they order their overpriced cocktails.

Management does this sometimes. Reallocates lifeguards to other “hospitality duties” when it’s slow. It’s the club’s way of making sure no one’s just sitting around.

And I hate it.

Hate being in the middle of people. Hate making small talk, pretending to care about drink orders and whether someone’s cocktail has exactly the right ratio of ice to liquor. I’d rather be up in the chair, baking in the sun, watching the water, not talking to anyone.

Now, I’m stuck slinging drinks for a bunch of trust fund kids and country club moms who think boundaries are optional.

I step behind the outdoor bar, already irritated, already counting down the minutes until I can go back to not doing this. The first half hour is fine—mostly iced teas and lemonades, a single mimosa, and a vodka tonic.

But then the poolside moms show up.

Two of them, already tipsy despite the fact that it’s barely noon. They have designer sunglasses perched on their noses, sheer cover-ups barely concealing expensive bikinis, and flashy rings that sparkle in the sun.

“Oh,” one of them purrs, sliding up to the bar. “Where haveyoubeen hiding?”

Her friend tilts her head, appraising. “You’re new.”

“I’m not,” I say flatly, already reaching for the vodka before they even order.

She smirks, leaning her elbows on the bar. “Must’ve been before my time, then.”

I don’t answer, just grab two glasses, fill them with ice, pour.

---