Page 14 of Shifting Sands

“I am,” I say, kind but firm. “But I’m also working. Can I get you something to drink?”

She blinks, then recovers with a laugh. “I’ll take a vodka soda with a lime, please.”

I make it and move on. I’m not rude—I never am. But I’ve had a lifetime of practice at deflecting without opening the door too wide. I’ve learned the difference between genuine curiosity and opportunistic charm. It’s not that I don’t want a connection; I just want it to be real.

And this? This isn’t real. That’s something I’ll never get here in Sandcastle Cove. It’s all flirt and opportunity.

At the center of the bar, one of the regulars, George, waves me down for another IPA. He is in his late sixties, has a beard down to his chest, and knows more about fishing than I ever will.

“You still remember how to pull a proper pint?” He grins.

“Better than I remember how to do my taxes,” I say, handing him the beer. “Where’s Greta tonight?”

“Home. She says she can’t hear herself think when a band is playing.” He sips his beer. “You holding up?”

“Barely.”

He chuckles. “Bet you’ll sleep good tonight.”

I smile, but I don’t stop moving.

The pace picks up again—drinks, tabs, more drinks. The line never ends. At some point, I lose track of time. I’m just motion and rhythm. A machine powered by the music.

The band transitions into their final set, and the crowd shifts like a tide. Some people drift toward the patio, others toward the restrooms, and a fresh wave of bodies hits the bar.

Heather returns with a tray and wide eyes. “Some lady in stilettos just tried to tip me with a diamond bracelet.”

“Did you take it?”

“No, but I should have. She and her friends have been a pain in my ass all night.”

We laugh, and I feel the weight in my chest lighten just a little.

Then she asks, “You sure you’re okay, boss?”

I wipe my hands on a towel and nod. “Yeah. Just been a long time since I’ve done this.”

She raises a brow. “Been hit on by every trust-fund-seeking gold digger within fifty miles?”

“Exactly,” I say dryly. “Also worked up an honest-to-God sweat. No spreadsheets or vendor calls. Just drinks and music and new faces.”

She looks at me for a second longer, then says, “Well, if you want to trade places, I’m happy to go lounge in your office while you break up that drunk couple dry-humping out on the patio.”

“Tempting.” I smirk before flagging down one of the bouncers and sending him to the patio.

Another hour. More smiling faces. A hundred more drinks. The band plays their final song—a slow, smoky version of an original—and the crowd finally starts to thin out. I can breathe again. My shirt is damp at the collar, and my forearms are sore from lifting bottles.

The blonde from earlier is gone. So is the tank-top girl. What’s left are the locals, the night owls, the regulars. They don’t care who I am or what I own. They just want their drinks made to their liking.

Leonard starts cleaning up glasses and restocking the mixers, and I join him.

When the last customer leaves, it’s close to one forty-five a.m. The lights blink on. The hum of the coolers replaces the music. The place feels like it’s finally exhaling.

I sit on a stool behind the bar and stretch my shoulders. My hands are raw from citrus and sanitizer. My voice is hoarse. My feet might never forgive me.

And I get to do it all again tomorrow night.

Heather finishes stacking the last tray and turns to me. “You’ve still got it, boss man. I’m impressed.”

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