Page 41 of Don't Say You're Sorry

He tips his chin at my shirt. “Let me see it.”

I look around.What the fuck kind of interview is this?

He barely said two words to me when I came in here and asked for Mick. He walked over, confirmed my name, gave my form a quick once-over, and took my ID and the résumé I was holding to read it. He didn’t show me to his office, instead choosing to conduct this interview in the middle of the dance floor. And now this.

Still, I want this job, and Frankie knows Mick, so I’m sure he’s notthatmuch of a creep. Which is why, after hesitating for a moment, I decide to roll with it and lift my shirt up to my neck.

Once again, he gives my body a quick once-over, then nods. “Sunshine,” he says as I lower my shirt. “One of Frankie’s boys has a tattoo just like that. Is it the mouthy one or the cute one?”

I clench my jaw. “The cute one.”

“Is he yours?”

Yes.

I press my lips together, unsure how to answer. I can’t say yes, but I’m not telling him no.

“He’s my…stepbrother.”

Mick cocks his head at me. “Okay then. Can you dance?”

“I…”Jesus. Why?“Define dance.”

He gives me an unimpressed look. “Move your hips and look hot.”

“Oh. Um. Sure.” If he asks me for a demonstration, I’m leaving.

He stares at me for a long moment before he says, “Okay, look. I’m a boy down and short on time, so I’m gonna be straight with you. I like Frankie, I like the way you look, and I like your accent, which is the only reason I’m still standing here talking to you. Work a shift for me tonight, and if you don’t completely fuck it up, I’ll give you the job.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

“Tonight…?” Meaning I won’t be able to go to Easton’s game.

“Is that a problem?”

I try to hide my disappointment as I shake my head. “No.”

“Good. Go see Megan over there.” He tips his chin at the dark-haired girl setting up for the night behind the bar. “She’s your supervisor.”

“Oh, that’s just what I need,” Megan says dryly, not even bothering to look up from her task. “Fresh meat.”

“Don’t scare him off, Megan. I like this one.”

“Yeah, I bet you do,” she says under her breath as Mick walks away.

Two hours later, the club is open and filled with people, the multicolored strobe lights flashing in time with the beat of the music. It’s taking me some time to get used to trying to learn how to do something new when I can barely hear myself think, but I’m getting there. I’ve only fumbled one bottle of whiskey so far, and I managed to catch it before it smashed, so I’m considering that a win. I don’t think I’m as incompetent as Megan thought I would be because her hostile energy from a couple hours ago has morphed into something more pleasant. She’s even smiled at me a couple times since I managed to make someone a Tom Collins without forgetting the syrup.

“The Tom Collins won you over, didn’t it?” I shout to her, wiggling my brows as I pour some tequila shots for the group in front of me.

She laughs, coming up beside me to take the bottle of tequila. As she pours, she says, “Make meanycocktail without peeking at your little cheat sheet over there, and I might be impressed.”

“Name it.”

“Singapore Sling.”

I give her a flat look. She cracks up.

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