“I will,” she quietly says, opening the leather-bound list. “Slow night?”
“Yes, but we have a birthday party coming in soon, so it’ll pick up.”
“You want it busy?”
I pick up a wine glass and place its dainty stem on the napkin between us. “Definitely! Much rather be making drinks than standing around. I’m not the lazy type. Resting makes me anxious. Although…” I trail off, not sure how much I should say.
It’s so different bartending at a fancy place like this over an Irish sports bar like O’Neal’s. There’s a greater distance between the customers and I, figuratively speaking. So many come here on business trips with important meetings, with people they hope to impress, or already do.
I’ve been warned not to be too chatty.
I’m just the help.
But the woman’s smile is welcoming as she angles her head and pries, “Although?”
Biting my lips a moment I reach for the stack of napkins hidden under the counter, covered in my cursive scrawl. “When it’s slow I’m not bored, because I’m writing my songs.”
Her eyebrows lift with interest. “You’re a musician?”
“Yep, but I don’t perform. I’m more behind the scenes.”
“You don’t like the stage?”
“Hate it,” I sheepishly smile. “Much to my mother’s chagrin.”
“Chagrin! I love that word,” she laughs, clapping her hands. “Been so long since I’ve used it.” Holding my look a moment she glances to the list and chooses. “Pinot Gris, please.”
Dipping down gracefully I snatch it from the cooler and remove the cork. “I just opened this earlier tonight.”
“Oh good.”
“They said it was delicious, but I haven’t tried it yet so I’ll give you a taste and see what you think. I’m new here.”
Folding her hands on the counter she waits while I pour into the spotless crystal. Taking a sip her lips curve with an approving nod. “Delicious.” I fill her glass to the dignified standard of half full while she explains, “I always find artists fascinating. I’m not one, nor is my husband. His talents are all with his hands.” Gently touching her forehead she smiles and nearly blushes. “That came out wrong. He’s in construction.”
Laughing I grin, “I assumed as much.”
“You’re just being polite.”
“I was raised in the South, like you.”
Her eyes narrow a little as she takes this in. “Atlanta, though, right? Since I don’t hear an accent.”
“Yes, I was raised near Midtown. You?”
“Dublin, Georgia, hence the drawl I can’t get rid of despite my moving here just over thirty years ago.”
“Don’t get rid of it! I like it,” I reassure her, genuinely. Returning the bottle to its home I admit, “I always wished I had one, so please keep talking.”
She laughs, a happy sound that brightens her eyes. They’re keen though, alert to everything I’m doing. If she weren’t so nice I’d feel self-conscious. Instead I’m just glad for the company.
“So you’re new you say?”
“Month and a half.”
“Do you like it?”
“Sure,” I smile.
An eyebrow lifts slightly and she sets the glass on the counter, twisting on the barstool to scan the empty bar before returning to me with a sneaky smile. “Nobody’s here. You can tell me the truth.”
I wag an amused finger at her. “How do you know I’m not?”
“Because I have three very tricky children,” she winks.
Sighing I concede, shoulders releasing the professional tension they’d held. “I miss the noise of my old job, if I’m honest. And…the people,” I murmur with Eric’s smile on my mind. Taking a deep breath I try to forget him, telling her with a wistful smile, “Also the jeans and tank tops. I really miss those. I’m not used to slacks and a tie. Should a woman wear ties? Maybe, but not by force, you know? Then again, I’m a rebel at my core so maybe I need this structure. But I’d fight anyone who says so. I don’t like being forced to do anything.”
“Mmm,” she hums from behind her glass before sipping. “How interesting.”
My eyebrows rise. “Makes life harder to be like me. I don’t know how ‘interesting’ it is.” A frown settles into me. “Oh no, don’t tell me you’re a spy for the Regis. Are they spying on me? I shouldn’t have told you that. Please don’t report it back to them. I thought we were just being honest. I do like it here, I just miss my old place—my friends worked there. It’s totally normal to miss it!”
She sets the glass down, eyes somber. “Why did you leave your old job?”
“I…uh…”
“Were you fired?”
“What? No! I’ve never been fired from anywhere! I’m a hard worker. I never do anything half way. And I’m very honest, which is why I was just telling you the truth.” Walking to the register and feeling helpless I groan, “Why didn’t I just keep my mouth shut?”
“You and my son have that in common, leading with your emotions, trusting easily.”
Flicking a look over my shoulder I mutter a confused, “What?”
“I’m Drew Cocker, Wren.” My hand flies to my mouth, my right hand. “See that’s how I knew it was you, the tattoo of birds on a slender branch. Mike told me that’s how I’d recognize you from the other bartenders. It’s just pure luck that I caught you alone.” My heart is thundering against my ribs as we stare at each other. “I always secretly wanted a tattoo of my own. My husband has one I love, but I never found the nerve. So brave to make that kind of a lifetime commitment.”
“You’re Eric’s mom?” I gasp, struggling to understand why and how. “You came here looking for me? Is he okay? He’s not hurt is he? Please say he’s not hurt!”
Her eyes flicker with interest and warm instantly. “So you do care about him.”
My jaw sets, and despite my stubbornness I nod. I can’t lie to her, I don’t want to lie to anyone, it’s why I’ve had to stay away from him. It was the only way I could avoid his questions and
