Page 17 of It Happened in Vegas

“I can help,” I said, hopping behind the bar before Keaton could argue.

“It’s not in your job description,” he grumbled.

“But immersing myself in serving could bring me some valuable brand research.”

“Don’t argue. We could use her. We’re getting killed here.” Jessa was all for it, and tossed me one of the new Hops logo t-shirts and a black apron. “Welcome aboard. We have one rule. Keep the customers happy and they’ll tip us better. We all share the tip jar contents at the end of the night.”

Keaton cocked his head at her. “Be serious. You know our rules.We card everyone, and we don’t serve to minors. And don’t over serve either when you notice someone getting drunk.”

“Got it. I just hope I don’t spill my tray and beer over anyone.” I slipped the black H. C. Hops t-shirt over my red tank, tying it off at my waist, then tied the black apron behind my back.

“Wait—you’ve waitressed or something before, right?” Keaton asked, eyes wide and suddenly concerned.

“Nope. This’ll be fun,” I giggled. “Don’t worry. How hard can it be?”

Two hours later, I was sweaty and exhausted, yet having the time of my life in this celebratory atmosphere of happily buzzed people.

The jukebox played, the beer flowed, drinks served, and I admired a certain rhythm to it all. I served one table at a time and kept up a sweet repertoire with the guests. In between, I grabbed drinks, and swapped stories and gossip about people with Jessa, who knew practically everyone, having lived here her whole life.

Every single time I passed by Keaton, he beamed at me with a smile I couldn’t define—was he in his element? The boss of the brewery, making money, and giving people a holiday to remember?

I wasn’t the only woman who couldn’t keep my eyes off him. A bus must have dropped off an entire group of fans to view Keaton in his hometown. He signed several napkins and coasters with a felt-tip marker, more than once.

When one chick begged him to sign her cleavage, I tried to keep my jealousy under control. He was a big fish in a small pond, and he soaked up every second of it.

Perhaps I wasn’t cut out to date a celebrity? The fan inside of me lamented, watching it all unfold. There were plenty of flirty men at my tables, though. Where my dating strategy failed in the past, I should have worked as a cocktail waitress to get more men to notice me.

I found out a particular group of three hockey players from Canada had driven down on their weekend off. One of them, goalie Declan Majors, had relatives in town and was particularly attentive to me every time I stopped by to check on their drinks.

“Aw, that’s Declan… I went to high school with him. He’s definitely had a glow up since then,” Jessa informed me as she eyed the man. There wasn’t much she missed from her post behind the bar. I didn’t know how she did it. Making drink orders plus managing the serving staff and in constant observation of the patrons—all while keeping Keaton in line. She particularly gave him grief over signing the woman’s chest. I hoped he paid Jessa well. She was worth her weight. “Look at the way he’s been eyeing you.”

“Who is eyeing who?” Keaton asked, appearing by my side as he dropped off a tray of empty glasses.

“Hot hockey men are fawning all over our new server here,” Jessa explained, with a tilt of her head toward me while simultaneously filling four shot glasses up with tequila. “What do you think about that, Keaton?”

He glanced over his shoulder, eyeing them. “I’d say they’d better keep their hands to themselves or they’ll find their asses kicked to the curb.” Was that a green-eyed monster or his usual protection of someone in his employ? To me, he said, “Why don’t I take their table, and you take table eight.”

I rolled my eyes. “Relax, brewmaster. I can handle them.”

“My, my. So protective of our staff, isn’t he, Sophie?” Jessa commented with an all-knowing glance, and filled my tray with the shots.

“Do you want me to put in a good word for you, Jessa?”

“Ew. No. Hockey players are hot, but not my type.”

“If I’m not your type, and they aren’t either, then who is?” Keaton asked. I was curious about how he knew Jessa wasn’t into him. Having hung out in the brewery the past few weeks, it was clear to me that they had a special bond, like siblings. Had they ever tested the waters for more?

“I guess I’ll know it when I see it,” she shrugged. “Uh-oh. Don’t look now, boss man, but a fresh group of women just arrived.”

“Better grab another felt tip. They’re sporting ample cleavage,” I snickered to Keaton, and moved away toward the hockey players. Never before in my life did I think learning to balance a heavy tray full of drinks in one hand would be a particular skill I’d want to master.

As a teenager, I never had to worry about money or work. It was only since graduating from Columbia that I’d attempted to get my first job ever, trying to put my marketing degree to good use. Mom frowned upon it. “I don’t understand why you’re making this so difficult on yourself. Your stepfather would give you a job in a heartbeat,” she’d said, so sure of her second ex-husband’s offer to employ me upon graduation.

He would have, but then I’d be under his thumb. I’d be obligated to have to work for him and with his sons. My older stepbrothers never exactly took to me. I’d be fighting them just to get ahead.

Fortunately, I was able to land a job with a top advertising agency. It was good, at first. I liked the work, and earning a paycheck made me feel valued. But soon I found out the hardway how cutthroat the business could be. I quit and have been striving to build my own clientele ever since.

“Here you go, guys. Four shots, but there’s three of you. Who gets the extra?” My eyes bounced from one handsome player to the next.

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