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“I’m Bailey. You sober?”

I nod, and then realize her question probably goes deeper than this current moment.

“I mean, it’s not like Ican’tdrink. I don’t need to stay sober or anything, I’ve just taken a long hiatus at this point.”

She smirks at me.

“So it doesn’t make me a terrible person to offer you a shot or two? For entertainment purposes.”

She suddenly nods at someone to the left of me, and starts pouring their drink without saying a word. She’s clearly a natural, her movements fluid and confident.

I wait until she’s done and handed off whatever whiskey-filled monstrosity she just created. Not that I doubt what she’s doing, I just don’t like whiskey.

“Sure,” I say when her hands stop moving for a few seconds. “I’ll take a shot, whatever you recommend.”

Vic hears enough that she looks over her shoulder to raise a brow at me, but she goes right back to talking, like she justhadto pause and do that mid-sentence. She’s adorable.

But Bailey? Bailey is hot. The more I watch her, the more I want to keep watching her. Anyone would feel the same if they paid attention to how she works in her space. I bet she’s been at this bar for years, knows every inch of it like the back of her hand.

When she hands me the intimidating sized shot glass–did they start making these bigger or something?–I ask her.

“How long have you worked here?”

And then I down the shot. It’s smooth enough that the burn doesn’t make my eyes water, and I allow a few seconds before taking a sip of my soda.

“A few years. My uncle owns the place.”

“I take it you enjoy this?” I point towards her busy hands.

She smiles at someone else, grabbing their empty glass.

“It has its good and bad days, but it’s what I know how to do. And I make decent tips, so that’s a good enough reason for meto stick with it. I feel bad for anyone who has to live paycheck to paycheck.”

I tilt my drink at her.

“Thanks for your pity,” I say.

“What do you do?” she asks.

“I manage a store.”

“That sounds like quite a workload.”

“It’s all I know how to do,” I say, repeating her earlier words. “There are worse things than selling band t-shirts to angsty teenagers.”

Bailey’s nose crinkles.

“There are much better things.”

I look around the bar exaggeratedly. The way she can’t let her focus stay in one place for too long, because there’s always someone else that needs a drink, or has something to say. It looks like utter chaos.

And I’m probably her worst nightmare, the kind of person getting her caught in a conversation when she has other things to do.

It’s too bad I don’t really care.

“I couldn’t imagine doing what you’re doing. I’d lose my mind.”

She smirks.