A Toast to the Good Times - By Liz Reinhardt Page 0,9

establish my name, I had and always would have a bone-deep connection with the tiny world that existed around a glass of liquor in the warm, dry comfort of a bar.

Or maybe it wasn’t a bar. Maybe it was our bar, the family bar that was about to go bankrupt. Or at least, that was what was going on the last time I thought to ask about it. Before I blew a gaping hole in all my family’s financial and emotional expectations.

Because I was supposed to save it.

I could have saved it.

But I didn’t.

Instead, I bolted as soon as my inheritance check cleared the bank. I was a punk ass kid who selfishly wanted to open my own place.

Maybe it was karma biting my ass when I found Heather and Tyler together.

Whatever the reason, I found my way to that tiny, sad pub after I left the scene of their double betrayal and settled in for a long night of Picklebacks. What I really wanted to do was pour the whiskey straight into my brain and burn the image of the two of them right out of my grey matter. I was only on my second shot when Mila came stumbling in.

“It’s cold as a witch’s tit in a brass bra out there!” She shot me a cheerful smile and pulled out the stool next to me. She collapsed onto it, letting several plastic shopping bags containing gift-wrapped packages slide off her arms. Her leather messenger bag hit the floor with a thunk and hardback books spilled out all over the place. “Do you mind if I sit here for a while? Just until the wind dies down?” Mila asked the bartender.

“I don’t care how long you sit, as long as you’re buying drinks. And tipping.” He gave her a quick wink, but I knew he was serious. Even in near-blizzard conditions, he wasn’t going to let her take up space at his bar for free.

“Sure. Okay. That’s not a problem.” Her dark hair pooled around her face as she dug through her purse. “Oh. Uh-oh. Um, my wallet...”

I glanced up and caught the bartender rolling his eyes.

“No sweat, I got it,” I said. Mila’s cheeks turned even pinker than they had been from the biting cold.

“No, that’s okay. It’s here somewhere.” She continued to dig through her purse.

“Really, I insist. What’ll you have?”

Mila bit her lip, and I could practically see the wheels spinning.

“What are you having?” She motioned to the pair of shots sitting in front of me.

“Pickelback.” I narrowed my eyes at her, taking in the mussed hair, the makeup-free face and the "I Read Banned Books" shirt peeking out from the folds of her thick wool coat, and the way she looked totally out of her element in this seedy little bar. “You look more like an amaretto sour type of girl. Or, maybe a pink paradise?”

Despite my misery, I couldn’t help the smirk I flashed while I gave her my professional opinion.

“I’ll have a Tom Collins,” she said, negating my smirk with the slow rise of one eyebrow. And I nearly fell off of my stool. She just ordered my grandfather’s drink. “Thanks,” she added. “I can totally pay you back, if you give me your address. I promise I’ll send you a check or something.”

“It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it. I’m Landry.” I extended my hand, and she shook it lightly.

Her smile was warm, slow, and sweet with just a tiny punch of sass. I really thought I had her pegged with her drink of choice, but I was obviously not on my A-game when it came to figuring girls out recently.

My surprise over Heather’s back-stabbing proved that.

“Mila. And thank you. Again.”

I wrapped my lips around the shot of whiskey and threw it back, then followed it with the shot of pickle juice.

“That’s pretty disgusting.” She wrinkled her nose, and I fought the urge to grimace over the after bite of the pickle brine.

I shrugged and moved a few inches closer to her.

Not because I was attracted to her in a sexual way.

More because something about her felt instantly comfortable. Like I’d known her my whole life. Like I could tell her about my every fuck-up and she’d listen without judging. I smiled her way, glad to meet her, glad to be drinking next to someone who, for whatever reason, made this shitty day a little bit better.

“It gets the job done. And a Tom Collins is an old man’s drink. Since we’re keeping