Page 31 of Good Graces

Her friend hums. “You play sports? You look like you could pick me up and not break a sweat.”

I keep my expression blank. “I swim.”

The first one drags her nails over the rim of her glass. “Mmm. Swimmers’ bodies are the best.”

Her friend giggles. “Toned, lean, so muchstamina.”

Jesus Christ.I slide their drinks across the bar, resisting the urge to rub my temples.

“Anything else?” I ask, already knowing I regret it.

The first one grins, tipping her sunglasses down to peer at me. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

I level her with a look. “It’s on my name tag.”

She laughs, eyes flicking to my chest, to the small WARREN stitched onto my polo.

“Oh, I like that,” she muses. “Strong name.”

The friend nudges her. “You’re terrible.”

I exhale through my nose. “Right. Enjoy your drinks.”

But they’re not done yet. The first one lingers, taking a slow sip of her cocktail before leaning in again, voice all sugar and amusement. “You ever give private lessons, Warren?”

I stare at her as her friend dissolves into laughter. “Oh my God, Victoria, stop.”

I turn, grab the bar rag, and start wiping down the counter. Because apparently, pretending I didn’t hear her is the only way this conversation ends.

Victoria pouts. “Aw. Don’t be like that. I bet you could teach me a lot.”

That’s it, I’m done. I don’t even bother hiding my disinterest, just flash the most bland, dead-eyed look I can muster and say, “Have a great day.” Then I turn my back and start taking inventory, hoping they’ll take the hint.

They do. Eventually. By the time they saunter off, giggling, I let out a slow exhale.

The damp cloth smears condensation from abandoned glasses, the scent of citrus clinging to my fingers. I scrub harder than necessary, trying to burn off the irritation, the embarrassment, the faint flush that crept up my neck the second she leaned too close.

I’m used to people looking at me. I’m not used to feeling cornered by it.

Four more hours. I roll my shoulders, refocus, and grab a clean glass.

Might as well earn the paycheck.

I should be on the stand, perched above the pool with nothing but my own thoughts and the occasional whistle blow to keep kids in check, not pouring vodka sodas for sunburned moms who flirt like it’s a sport of its own.

I roll my shoulders, reach for another glass, and then a flash of movement catches my eye. Dark hair. Frantic stride. Quinn.

She’s moving fast, slipping through the door to the break room, disappearing behind it like she doesn’t want anyone to see. Is she upset? Hiding? Avoiding me again?

My fingers tap-tap against the counter. I stare at the door, jaw clenching.

Don’t do it, Warren.

I press my palm against the counter, grip the edge. I’ve already done enough. Sent the text. Checked in. She didn’t answer. That should be enough.

She’s not your business anymore.

I exhale sharply. Drop the rag. And then, like the goddamned fool I am, I chase after her.

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