Page 14 of Her Possessive Daddies

"Thanks, but I think I'll stick to the basics for now." I grab the cocktail shaker. "Manhattan, right?"

"You got this one. Just remember?—"

"Sweet vermouth before the whiskey, two dashes of bitters." The familiar motions come naturally now, my hands steadier than they were two weeks ago. The ice clicks against metal as I shake.

"Look at you, memorizing these recipes like a pro." Jennifer slides her finished drink across the bar with practiced ease. "But I still catch you googling some of the fancy ones under the counter. You aren’t too slick."

Heat climbs up my neck. "That Vesper Martini threw me last night. Who orders those anymore?"

"James Bond wannabes." She laughs, then gestures to a new customer. "Speaking of which?—"

"Sazerac?" The man's barely opened his mouth before I shake my head. "Sorry, that one's still beyond me. Jennifer?"

"I got you, hon." She smiles as she passes. "You handle that group of ladies who just walked in. They look like cosmos and French 75s – your specialty."

The women settle on barstools, and I straighten my shoulders. This I can do. Two weeks of training have taught me that confidence sells drinks as much as skill does. The basic cocktails I've mastered, and the regulars are starting to recognize me. It's the obscure classics that still send me scrambling to Lacey and Jennifer with pleading eyes.

"What can I do for you ladies?" I ask, already reaching for the champagne flutes.

"Three cosmos, one French 75," one of them orders, and I smile at Jennifer's prediction.

My hands move through the familiar motions, muscle memory taking over. The cranberry juice splashes bright against silver, and I feel a flutter of pride. Two weeks ago, I couldn't tell a jigger from a julep strainer. Now? Well, now I'm getting there.

My stomach drops as Michael approaches the bar, his usual stoic expression replaced with concern. Something's wrong.

"Abbie, we've got a situation." He runs a hand over his shaved head. "Jen's shift is almost over, and Lacey's car got rear-ended on her way in. She's dealing with insurance and police reports."

"Oh no, is she?—"

"She's fine, just shaken up. But..." He glances around the already-bustling bar. "Tyler called in with food poisoning, and Emma's got some family emergency. Think you can handle things solo tonight?"

The weight of responsibility settles heavy on my shoulders. Really? They want me to run this place alone? My hands fidget with the bar towel.

"I..." Looking around, I count at least fifteen customers, with more trickling in. The thought of managing them all makes my palms sweat. But then I remember Chandler's smug face, his comments about nannying not being a real job. "Yes. I can do it."

"You sure?" Michael raises an eyebrow. "It's okay if?—"

"I've got this." My voice sounds more confident than I feel. "Lacey and Jen have taught me well. And you'll be around if I need backup, right?"

"I'll be in my office handling paperwork, but yeah, just holler if you need me." He pauses. "The regulars know their usual spots, and weekday nights are usually manageable. You remember the panic button under the bar?"

I nod, patting the discrete button that would bring security running.

"Alright then." He gives me a rare smile. "Show me what you've got, kid."

As Michael walks away, I survey my domain. The gleaming bottles behind me, the polished wood beneath my hands, the growing crowd before me. I can do this. I have to do this.

A man waves from near my workstation, and I straighten my shoulders. Time to prove I can handle this.

The amber lights catch on the polished wood as I wipe down the bar, collecting empty glasses and tidying up the scattered napkins. My curls keep falling in my face, and I blow them away with a frustrated puff. Note to self: bring more hair ties tomorrow. I’ve survived the first two hours alone so far, maybe I really do have this. How hard can keeping customers happy really be?

"Excuse me." A deep voice cuts through the ambient chatter behind me.

The rich timbre makes my spine straighten involuntarily. I turn, cloth still in hand, to find myself face-to-face with one of the most well-dressed men I've ever seen. He's gorgeous, and his suit probably costs so much more than my semester's tuition.

"What’s your poison?" I manage to keep my voice steady, channeling my inner Lacey. She'd know exactly how to handle someone like this.

"I haven't seen you here before." His voice carries a hint of amusement as he settles onto the barstool, adjusting his sleeve cuffs.

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