Riley kissed my cheek and ran out from behind the door. She yelled over her shoulder, “Thanks for doing this. I owe you one.”

My first few customers ordered beer. Aside from some extra foam because I hadn’t mastered the art of pouring yet, no one seemed to be the wiser—that is, until a group of four women approached.

“I’ll have a Cosmo.”

“I’ll have a Paloma.”

“I’ll have a Moscow Mule.”

A what?

“I’ll take a Corona, please.”

At least the one with manners wouldn’t be getting her drink screwed up. I poured the Corona, shook up a Cosmo—since it happened to be my favorite, I actually knew how to make that one—and then started to flip through the drink mix book that was on top of the red cooler. Only…it didn’t have a recipe for a Moscow Mule or a Paloma. I headed down to Tia.

“Hey…what goes into a Moscow Mule?”

“Seriously? I’ve never been asked to make one, but I think it’s two ounces of vodka, four ounces of ginger beer, and lime juice.”

“Thanks. What about a Paloma?”

“Who the hell are you serving?” She laughed. “Two ounces of tequila, seven of grapefruit soda, and lime juice. The weird drink mixers like ginger beer and grapefruit soda are in the bottom of the cooler. You’ll have to dig.”

“Got it. Thanks.”

On my way back down to the other end of the bar, I stopped to refill a beer and made change for someone. The music was just so loud and distracting, and I was feeling a bit overwhelmed, so by the time I grabbed glasses and started to make the ladies’ drinks, I wasn’t sure I remembered it correctly.

Was it ginger ale, beer, vodka, and lemon? I looked down to the other end of the bar. Tia had a shaker going in one hand and the other was pouring a beer. The bar was also starting to get backed up.

“Did you forget about our drinks?” Mule lover had an attitude.

“Coming right up.” And don’t blame me if it tastes like crap.

I whipped up my best impersonation of the stupid cocktails and poured them both into a fancy glass. Everything tasted better in a swanky glass anyway. After I rang them up, I moved on to the next customer.

“I’ll take a mudslide,” the guy with the pastel pink polo said.

“Umm. Okay.” I glanced down to Tia. She was still busy. I couldn’t interrupt her for every customer. “That’s with Kahlua, right?”

The guy gave me a look. What was with everyone at this place? “Maybe you should get a job at the ice cream store down the block if you don’t know how to make a mudslide.”

“Maybe you should drink beer instead of a ladies’ drink,” I countered.

“It’s for my girlfriend. Not that it’s any of your business.”

“Oh.”

I walked to the recipe book. Why aren’t these things in alphabetical order? Mudslide was second to last. Vodka, Bailey’s Irish Cream, Kahlua, Milk—all in equal parts.

Two other customers ordered their drinks as I mixed the cocktail. I needed to learn not to make eye contact until I was ready to take the next order. Because of the interruptions, I’d inadvertently put in Bailey’s twice and forgotten the milk.

While I rang up snotty mudslide guy’s drink, the foursome of women I’d served returned to the bar. They pushed their way to the front and slammed two glasses down on the bar. The liquid from the drinks splashed all over.

“These aren’t right. I don’t know what you put in them, but they taste terrible.”

“Okay. Give me one minute, and I’ll remake them for you.”

The woman at the forefront of the bitch brigade rolled her eyes.

I took the twenty-dollar bill from mudslide guy over to the register and returned with his five dollars in change. Fifteen bucks. What a rip off.

“Here you go.”

The guy had a milk mustache as he lowered what I’d just concocted. “This isn’t right, either. Do you know what the hell you’re even doing back there?”

“No!” I yelled back in defense. “I’m helping out a friend. You don’t have to be so rude. I’m doing my best.”

I took my time remaking all three drinks and had the snooty patrons taste test them this time before walking away. I’d felt someone watching me from the end of the long bar, but had to work my way over.

It wasn’t until I’d finished taking care of two more customers that I got a quick look at the eyes I’d felt following me. I did a double take. This guy was gorgeous. Drop dead gorgeous, but he also stood out like a pit bull amongst a sea of poodles. Black leather biker jacket, sun-kissed skin, scruff on his face, dirty blond hair that stuck out all over in a messy way that looked like maybe he’d just had sex. Really good sex. My eyes caught with his deep green ones, and his intense stare made me nervous. “I’ll be right with you.”