“Not the best way to start the day, huh?”

He shakes his head. “Those images get stuck in the brain, they do. Anyway, you were saying something about this YouTuber?”

“Right, yes.” I smack the bar, happy to move the subject away from my grandfather accidentally stumbling on a porn site. “She has a channel.”

“Like a TV channel?”

“Yeah, kinda. I mean, they even have commercials that you have to watch—”

“Can’t you DVR and fast-forward through the junk?”

I introduced Gramps to DVR back when I lived with him and Grams after my parents passed and it’s probably his favorite thing in the world. Apart from this bar and the memory of Grams. “Not on YouTube. Anyway, this woman, Tori Taylor—”

“Sounds like one of those dirty film stars.”

“I promise she’s not a dirty film star. Anyway, she has a channel with over ten million subscribers.”

“Geez, that’s a lot of people. She do neat tricks or something? Is she a dancer?”

“No, Gramps. She’s not a dancer. Just let me finish.” I wait to see if he’s going to interrupt again, but he stays silent, for now. “Anyway, she runs a ‘Best of’ feature on her channel. Best products, best places to visit, that kind of thing. She’s running a Best Bar in the Pacific Northwest competition and The Knight Cap is entered.” I pull up the video on my phone and play it for Gramps, then show him The Knight Cap nominations before I shift to Instagram where he can check out all the other bars that have been nominated, too.

He pauses my scroll a few pictures down. “Isn’t that the place next door? Buttercream and Booze?”

“Yup. Sure is.” Of course she’s been nominated, likely by every single human being she knows. And despite her super prickly attitude, apparently she has a lot of friends because she’s clogging up the feed with all the damn nominations.

Gramps takes my phone and starts scrolling. Then he hits her profile link and keeps on flipping through pictures. He lets out a low whistle and holds the phone out two inches from my face. “Have you met her?”

“Sure have.”

“She’s quite the looker,” Gramps mutters.

“I guess, if you like the whole June Cleaver get-up.”

Gramps cocks a brow. “Does nae matter what she’s wearing. Could be a burlap sack and she’d still have the face of an angel.”

Gramps isn’t wrong. She’s stunning in a very classic, wholesome way. I have to admit, as unconventional as her clothing choices may be, they also make her alluring. She’s a mass of contradictions. Her entire look screams sweet and retro, but she’s a real take-no-prisoners spitfire. And I have to admit I kind of like how easy it is to get under her skin. It’s addicting, really.

The flyers were meant to be a joke and so was the fake poop. I’d watched her step in it the day before and thought the best way to clear the air would be to make light of it. Apparently Alice and I have very different ideas as to what is funny and what isn’t. She didn’t seem to appreciate the fake turd. Or the anger management flyer, or the lavender oil—who doesn’t love the smell of that? And I didn’t so much as get a thank you or a chuckle over the reconfigured unicorn martini glass. Which I put a lot of time and effort into for my own personal satisfaction.

I thought she’d laugh and soften up, but that isn’t at all what’s happened. Then again, what would I expect of someone who’d rather mix drinks with fourteen freaking ingredients instead of pouring a nice hoppy beer instead.

“Does she own the place next door, or just work there?” Gramps asks.

“I think it’s hers? She runs it, that much I know.”

“Well, it’s been empty a long time. Every single business that crops up there ends up going under within the year. Here’s hoping she’s got better luck than the rest. I’m guessing she got a deal on the rent with all the bad juju coming outta that place.”

I’m not a big believer in things like “bad juju” or luck. Places fail or succeed for a lot of reasons, not because the businesses that occupied the same location prior tanked. Regardless, the fact that she probably got a deal on rent tells me something about grumpy Alice in Wonderland. She’s clearly a fighter and savvy. I’ve got my work cut out for me if I’m going to beat her as The Best Bar in the Pacific Northwest.

Was it the smartest way to handle things by piggybacking on her Grand Opening? Probably not, and I hadn’t intentionally copied her, but it definitely ended up working in my favor. Good thing I like friendly competition.

“Live bands, they’re always popular.” Lars, my fulltime bartender, polishes a glass while checking out his reflection in the mirror. “I’d be happy to be the first live performance if you can get Lana to bartend.”

He’s good at his job, and the women love him, which is why I deal with his inflated ego. He’s also my twenty-three-year-old cousin who’s still waiting for his big break to rock stardom, hence the bartending gig. “So you can serenade her with songs you’ve written professing your undying love?”

“Women eat that shit up.”

“Too bad you can’t date her since you work with her.” It’s more of a reminder than anything.

“Why are you always such a buzzkill? This is a bar, not some office.”

“Why are you always such a fuckboy?”

He smirks. “I’m surprised you even know what that means, old man.”

“I’m thirty, not collecting my pension.”

“Whatever. I’m in my sexual prime and I plan to capitalize on that for as long as my dick will allow.”

“Just not with any of the women who work here and preferably not the patrons, either.”

He rolls his eyes. “What’s the point of being a bartender if I can’t use it to get laid?”

It’s my turn to give him a look. “Okay, first of all, think about what you’re saying, Lars. Do you really want to entice drunk, not fully coherent women into your bed? Consider the potential ramifications of that. Carefully.”

His entire face scrunches up. “When you put it that way…”

“Consent is best sought when sober.” I’m aware that I am, in fact, being a huge buzzkill—but for good reason. Serving alcohol is a big responsibility, especially in an establishment that has been in my family for years. I’m all for having fun…within reason. And twenty-one-year-olds aren’t known for high-level thinking skills when they’re under the influence.