Page 99 of Best Served Cold

I tilt my head. I’m a Pisces, which means Rob must be a Cancer. I have no idea how Dottie would have come by that information—Rob doesn’t strike me as someone who’d give out his birthday—but I don’t doubt her. “Cancer. That ends in July, right? So it must be coming up soon.”

“Indeed, my dear. His birthday is coming up in a few weeks.” She rattles off the date. “He didn’t mention it to you?”

No, in fact. I shouldn’t be surprised by that. Rob doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who’d make a big deal out of his birthday. But it does make me feel a little twist of sadness.

She clucks her tongue. “He wouldn’t, would he? Our boy is surprisingly reticent for the lead singer of a band. It’s as if all the ego went to his brother. Still, Idohope Jonah has been stroking his stone. It should help expel some negative energy.”

I smile, thinking about how Hannah would react to that statement. “Yeah, I’m sorry, but I don’t see him doing that.”

“Me neither,” she says, her tone mournful. “But all we can do is present a person with opportunities to be better, my dear. We can’t do the work for them.”

It has the weight of truth to it, and we both let the words sit between us for a moment before she pushes the zippered case toward me. “I’ve brought you a little gift. For the rest of your shift, we’re going to work magic together.”

I smile at her. “I have to work, Dottie. I’ve already been distracted.”

“Oh, don’t worry one bit. I’ve cleared it with Dylan already. We’re going to practice some alchemy and make your new drink menu even better.”

That sounds fun and creative, and I’d very much like to do it. But I’ve dawdled too much as it is, checking my phone multiple times during my shift. I purse my lips, debating what to do.

“Just a second,” I say, and walk over to the curve in the L-shaped bar so I can catch Dylan’s eye. He glances over, taking notice instantly, and walks toward me.

“Are you really okay with me spending the rest of my shift mixing drinks with Dottie?” I swallow nervously. “I feel like I’ve already created so much fuss…” I trail off in response to the severe expression on his face.

“I want you to mix drinks with Dottie because the owners and I think the NA menu is a great idea that will make everyone money. This isn’t me cutting you a break, Sophie. But even if I were, there wouldn’t be anything wrong with that. We like having you around here, for as long as you’d like to be part of the team.”

They want me here. They like what I’m doing. They think it has worth…

“Thank you, Dylan,” I say, my voice slightly wobbly.

He gives me an awkward nod, probably noticing that I’m on edge. “Thankyou. And have fun. I figured you could practice at the staff bar.”

Based on what I’ve heard from Hannah and Briar, the fully stocked staff bar in the back might be a purely Buchanan Brewery phenomenon. Briar says it’s one of the things her father, who is allergic to fun, hates most about Buchanan Brewery. Dottie and Beau Buchanan used to throw the most memorable staff parties when they were a couple. Beau passed away years ago, and Dottie doesn’t technically work at the brewery anymore, but their grandchildren have carried on the tradition.

I convey the information to Dottie, and she slings the bag over her arm and heads into the back with me. It turns out she’s brought several varieties of iced tea from her signature blends at Tea of Fortune, and we have a lovely time creating together. Including naming all of the drinks.

I feel the lovely itch to do more of this. To make something.

Before I know it, my shift is over.

“Go on home, my dear,” Dottie says, her eyes shining. “I feel impassioned by our work, don’t you? Perhaps you should invite your young man over.”

I consider it and find Iwouldlike to share this with him, to make him a Man About Town and watch him while he drinks it. To ask him for his help conceptualizing and naming new drinks.

But he’s not really your boyfriend,a voice in my head whispers.It’s mostly pretend.

“We’ll see,” I say with a forced smile.

Dottie notices, of course.

“Youwillsee,” she says, patting my face gently. “It’ll all work out, better than you’d thought possible.”

I reach into the pocket of my sundress for the little guitar pick, running my finger over it, and for a moment I let myself believe her.

When I get home,Otis is sitting on the couch with a beer and, thankfully, no pseudo-pornography on the television. He perks up when he sees me. “You’re home.”

“Did you catch the pigeon?”

He sighs and slumps a little more. “No. But I staked her out for an hour and a half in an oak tree. Then she followed me halfway to the house, and I felt sure I had her. She swooped down to grab one of the treats, but as soon as I tried to grab her, she shot up into the air and pooped on my head.”

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