Katelyn’s gear switch is smooth as silk, just like she is.
Surprised, Willow looks at me with raised brows. Her eyes swirl like she’s trying to figure something out. Me? My family? Is this a set-up? I squeeze her hip encouragingly, praying she says yes. After a second that seems like an eternity, she turns back to Katelyn. “That sounds great. Let me know when, though I work every day but Monday.”
That answers Shay’s earlier question. I’m busy with Willow all day on Monday, so someone else will have to handle deliveries.
“Six days a week till two a.m.? Nobody’s gonna accuse you of being lazy,” Shayanne teases, then starts singing, “She works hard for that money . . .” She’s horribly off-key and not even following the famous tune, making up her own notes and not even hitting those and getting the lyrics wrong too. To say that I got the lion’s share of the musical talent in my family is a gross exaggeration. I got it all, every last drop of musical DNA.
Willow laughs. “Yeah, bartenders’ hours are pretty much the opposite of farmers’ hours, I guess. I usually crash around four, sleep until ten, then back behind the bar by noon if I’m pulling a lunch shift. But I don’t mind. I’m happy to help Unc.” A shadow passes through her eyes, and I sense a slight tension in her when she says that. I hope she’s not overdoing it.
The girls chatter away, talking about this and that, and we guys stay as quiet as church mice. I’m well aware that they’re testing Willow, checking her out and seeing if she slides into our group easily. Dynamic is important—like music, it has to flow naturally, and so far, Willow seems to fit right in.
I’m not surprised. Who wouldn’t like a sweetheart like her?
After a bit, she says she needs to get back behind the bar, and I feel the loss of her at my side. Back at her station, she hollers out, “Last call!” and there’s a sudden influx of orders that has her scrambling up and down the bar. But she handles it all with grace and a smile.
Not soon enough, it’s time to close and Willow does the ‘don’t have to go home but you can’t stay here’ spiel. Olivia clears tables left and right, thanking people for their tips and promising to see them tomorrow night.
A drunk guy loudly asks why she’s not kicking our table out, and Olivia laughs as she follows his pointed finger to our group. She dares him, “You want to be the one to tell them?” Toward us, she calls out, “Hey, Brutal, think this guy has something to discuss with you.”
The guy looks over, and Brutal glowers back, squaring up and clenching his jaw. He doesn’t even need to say anything as Drunk Dude pales, gets up unsteadily, and heads for the door with the help of what I assume is his designated driver.
Brutal relaxes with a smirk. “Must’ve been something I said.” We chuckle because Brutal is the biggest teddy bear of us all, probably the least likely to get in a tussle, but he knows how to work his size and mean mug to his advantage.
“We’d better get going, anyway. Mama Louise is keeping Cindy Lou tonight,” Sophie says, standing up.
Next to her, James confides, “She’s hoping for another grandbaby.”
Allyson laughs. “She’s got Cooper tonight too. Told me that he helps her with Cindy Lou. Hope she’s not dreaming of another one from us. This shop is closed.” She waves her hand around her middle section.
But Brutal growls, “It’d better not be closed.”
Allyson rolls her eyes. “Not for you, but for babies . . . closed indefinitely.”
They all head for the door, leaving me alone at the table. I gather up our trash and glasses, stacking them the way Olivia does and taking them to the back. Ilene doesn’t blink at my being in the kitchen, and Daniel simply takes the glasses with a sound of appreciation and gets back to work.
I help clean up the front of the bar, pushing the broom and mop around after flipping the chairs up on the tabletops, and before long, everything’s done.
Daniel walks behind the bar and says something quietly to Willow. She looks at me, leaning on the far end of the bar, and I know my eyes are dark as night and promising sin. Dirty thoughts assail me . . . what I could do to her on the