Page 10 of Single Girl in the City
“Just the drinks,” she said coolly. He was irritated—at himself—but there was also this strange ping of relief that the conversation had come to a standstill.
Wanting to be a gentleman and make up for the misunderstanding, he poured her drinks and slid them across the bar. “On the house.”
He watched her walk away, the sway of her hips telling him he’d blown it. Only he wasn’t as disappointed as he should be.
“You’re losing your touch,” Rhett said, laughing annoyingly loud, while Curly and Moe joined in.
Owen ignored them and helped a few other customers who’d been patiently waiting, hoping to take some of the pressure off the solo-flying bartender. He worked his way down half of the bar, ending with a party of women who wanted five cosmos. He did his little Tom Cruise show with the shaker and nearly dropped it.
“Getting a little slow in your old age,” Rhett pointed out.
“It’s called work fatigue. It happens when someone actually has to work twelve-hour shifts for a living.”
Actually, it usually ended up being closer to sixteen hours. Owen started his workday at nine thirty sharp and between paperwork, payroll, making sure the place ran smoothly and his staff was doing their job, he was lucky if he got to bed before midnight. He used to get to bed by ten, but when he caught one of the bartenders skimming money from the till he’d decided if the bar was open, he was working.
Only his body hadn’t gotten the memo.
“Maybe it’s because you spent yesterday passing out condoms to Mom’s friends,” Rhett said, and Owen found himself wondering, not for the first time since yesterday, what he’d been thinking.
Not only had he followed Abi inside, something she was not pleased with, he’d also caught her spinning around the dance floor with just about every old geezer there. Seemed Abi was the senior center’s activities director and also the ballroom dancing instructor. She’d dumped the clown suit for a flowy Ginger Rogers skirt and looked damn sexy floating around the room. He attempted to take her for a twirl twice, but she’d ignored him.
Or tried to. Every so often she’d glance his way, frowning at him when he’d send her a wink. Enough winks to make him fifteen minutes late.
He thought of her journal and smiled. “Just doing a good deed.”
Rhett and Gage laughed it up, but Josh studied him, long and thoroughly.
His brother had this way of sensing when there was more to the story. And being the closest in age, Josh and Owen didn’t have many secrets. In fact, as a habit, Owen didn’t do secrets. Period. They had this way of tainting everything they touched. He’d learned the hard way how destructive a secret could be—leaving him with an upfront and honesty-mandatory policy when it came to the people in his life.
So it didn’t sit right that he had a tiny secret of his own. Okay, not really a secret; it was more of a keep-my-own-confidence situation. Owen was so overwhelmed with work he was having a hard time keeping his head above water. A fact that would only worry his family.
Tattooing was Owen’s first passion and the reason he’d chosen art school over business school. He’d been helping run the family bar since he was sixteen, so he understood the backbone needed to run a business, he just wasn’t sure anymore that he was running the right business.
In no way did he want to give over management of the bar, but he wouldn’t mind some time to himself.
“Good deed? You wouldn’t even take Littleshit for a walk yesterday when I was needed in the studio,” Rhett said, referring to his ex-wife’s dog. Rhett received primary custody in the divorce—and not by choice.
“Like every day, I was busy. Plus, I’m not a dog walker,” Owen said as Fancy—aka Littleshit—appeared out of nowhere and lunged at Owen, nearly taking off a finger. “Jesus, she’s like a rat-sized honey badger.”
“He’slike a BS detector with needle teeth,” Rhett explained calmly. “He can smell a lie from across the street.”
“Well, unless your BS meter has a service animal license, he needs to leave.”
Rhett reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet, quickly revealing an official-looking stamped by the state of Oregon, laminated card and slid it across the bar.
Owen lifted it and read the top. “Are you shitting me? An emotional support dog?”
“What can I say? He keeps me calm on the road.”
Owen slid the card back. “Where’s your BS meter now?” he asked Fancy, who was too busy licking his doggie bits to be bothered.
“Now that we have that squared away, how about a pitcher of hefeweizen?” Gage asked.
“I’ve got five other customers ahead of you three and I’m working my ass off. It hasn’t let up since opening.”
“Whose fault is that?” Josh asked, walking behind the bar to grab three frosted mugs and fill a pitcher. Normally, Owen would blast him for daring to breach his space, but he was just too damn tired.
“Actually, I interviewed two potential bartenders yesterday and someone for the manager’s position.”
