Page 8 of Her Possessive Daddies

"Michael Romano. Please, follow me." He gestures toward the bar area.

The empty room amplifies every sound -the subtle hum of the refrigeration units, the clinking of glasses as they are being stacked by staff. It's eerie, like being in a theater after the show's ended.

"We're closed for a private event tonight," he explains, settling onto a barstool. "Please, have a seat."

I perch on the stool, trying to look professional despite the fact that my feet don't quite reach the footrest.

"A little bartending experience?" He glances at what I assume is my application.

"Well, not in the professional sense, but I've spent three years managing drunk college students at parties, which is basically an unpaid internship in crowd control."

The corner of his mouth twitches. "Psychology major?"

"Yes. Night classes at the college."

"Interesting combination. Most people who apply here want to be actors or musicians."

"I just want to understand people better. Bartenders are basically unlicensed therapists, right?" I take a risk and raise one eyebrow cheekily, holding his gaze.

This time he actually smiles, though it's gone so quickly I almost miss it. "The hours are late. 9-2. You alright with that?"

"Perfect. My classes end at seven, so I'll have time to get here."

He studies me for a moment, and I fight the inclination to shrink under his gaze. I channel Tessa's confidence, continuing to meet his eyes steadily.

"Can you start tonight? Help with the private event? Consider it a trial run."

My heart jumps into my throat. "Tonight? I mean, yes, absolutely."

"Good. Be back here at nine. Wear black, nothing too flashy. Emily at the front will give you the employee handbook on your way out."

He tucks his papers back in the folder, signaling the end of our brief interview. I can't help wondering if I've just signed up to work for the mob. But hey, at least the mob probably offers health insurance.

Mr. tall, dark, and imposing rises from his barstool, and his height becomes even more imposing. His hand engulfs mine in a firm handshake.

"If tonight goes well, you’ll keep the job. Nine PM sharp."

"Thank you, Mr. Romano. I won't let you down."

"Michael is fine.” He steps away, leaving me with a few insecurities about this new venture.

The receptionist hands me a leather-bound employee handbook at the podium, her perfectly manicured nails tapping against the cover. "Dress code is on page three. And welcome aboard. My name is Emily."

The handbook weighs heavy in my hands as I open the heavy door, breathing in the scent of the evening air. My legs shake with each step toward my car, the reality of what just happened hitting me. A real job. A grown-up job. No more babysitting entitled brats or dealing with Chandler's judgment.

My phone rings before I even reach my car.

"Well?" Tessa's voice bursts through the speaker. "Did you get it? Are you a fancy cocktail goddess now?"

"I start tonight. Trial run for some private event."

"Tonight? Holy shit, we need to celebrate! And plan your outfit! And-"

"Tess, breathe. I need something black and not flashy."

"Boring. But fine, we can work with that. Get your ass home so we can make you look like the sexiest non-flashy bartender ever."

The excitement bubbling in my chest makes it hard to pay attention while driving. Each red light feels like torture, my mind racing with possibilities. Sure, it's just serving drinks, but it's also a chance to prove Chandler wrong. To prove to myself that I can be more than just someone's girlfriend or babysitter.

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