Page 3 of Handful

“We have twelve options on tap. I’ll get you a menu.” I turned away before Handful could say anything else, grateful for the excuse to put distance between us. My hands were steady as I pulled the tap menu from under the bar — years of practice had taught me to keep my cool under pressure — but my heart was beating faster than I liked.

Remembering names was a professional skill — use someone’s name, remember their drink, tips go up by a third. His was right there on his cut, which helped. Three years behind a bar had given me a complete enough education in men to know exactly what he was: charming, persistent, and entirely certain it would work eventually. I’d dated, when the timing suited. Casually, carefully, never in a way that competed with what I was building. I hadn’t met anyone who made me want to do otherwise.

And yet.

There was something in the way this guy had looked at me. Not just the obvious appreciation — I was used to that, had learned to tune it out years ago — but something sharper. Curiosity, maybe. Interest that went beyond the physical.

Don’t, I told myself firmly. Do not go there.

I set the menu in front of Target. He scanned it, looking faintly overwhelmed by the options, then slid it back across the bar. “You pick.”

I grabbed a tulip glass and poured the best IPA we had, then turned back to build the Old Fashioned. The movements were automatic but I took extra care with each step. Not because I wanted to impress Handful. Because I wanted to prove that I could make a perfect cocktail while completely ignoring his existence.

“So,” he said, leaning on the bar. “Austen. Like the author. Parents are professors. Let me guess, you majored in English too?”

“I’m not playing twenty questions with you.”

He grinned. “Just trying to make conversation.”

“Try harder.”

He laughed. Actually laughed, like I’d said something delightful instead of dismissive. “God, you’re mean. I love it.”

“I’m not mean. I’m efficient.” I strained the cocktail into a rocks glass and set it in front of him. “That’ll be twenty four dollars.”

He pulled out thirty dollars in cash and slid it across the bar. “Keep the change.”

I tucked the bills into my apron without comment. Six dollars on twenty-four wasn’t going to buy my friendliness either.

He took a sip of the Old Fashioned and his eyebrows rose. “Holy shit.”

“Problem?”

“This is incredible.”

I felt a small flush of pride despite myself. “It’s my job.”

“No, seriously.” He took another sip, slower this time, savoring it. “This is the best Old Fashioned I’ve ever had. And I’ve had a lot of Old Fashioneds.”

“I believe you.”

He cocked his head. “That wasn’t a compliment about my drinking habits.”

“Wasn’t it?”

Target returned from the bathroom — I hadn’t even noticed him leave — and picked up his beer. “This place is nice, Handful. Way nicer than the usual dives you go to.”

“I’m trying to expand my horizons,” Handful said, still looking at me. “See how the other half lives.” He raised his glass in a mock toast. “The drinks are excellent. The company is… challenging.”

“I’m not company. I’m your bartender.”

“For now.”

I opened my mouth to respond but a wave of new customers descended on the bar, demanding my attention. By the time I’d worked through the rush, Handful and Target had moved to a corner booth.

An hour passed. Then two. The Friday night crowd ebbed and flowed, keeping me busy enough that I could almost forget about the two bikers in the corner booth.

Almost.