Page 9 of Adored by the Grumpy Ghost (Mapletown Monster Mates #1)

Natalie

N o one in Mapletown is hiring. Not the florist, not the coffee shop, the pizzeria, the bookstore, the occult shop, the grocery store, or the bakery.

The owners seemed nice enough, but I got the feeling that even if they were hiring, I wasn’t going to be considered a candidate.

I don’t know why. It didn’t seem like it had to do with my resume.

Most barely glanced at it before telling me they didn’t have any open positions.

Maybe it’s all in my head, and this tiny town is fully staffed.

I’m probably imagining the unwelcome vibe I was sensing, and if there’s one thing I’ve clocked ten-thousand hours doing, it’s overthinking. I’ve reached expert-level.

After I swing by the home goods store on the edge of town for a broom, I take the long way home. Winston is going to be relentless with his mockery when he finds out my job search was a bust.

How did Nonna Penny put up with his obnoxious ass? Maybe she was less particular than I am and let him make whatever house rules he wanted and followed them to a T because she was too exhausted to care. I can’t imagine any other way to live with him without wanting to smother him with a pillow.

At least he doesn’t clip his toenails in my bathroom sink or sing Limp Bizkit at the top of his lungs, or fart loudly and make me guess what he had just eaten––a truly disgusting game a guy I dated in college insisted on playing.

I take a right onto Mountain View Road, which is the long, winding road that’ll lead me home.

The windows are down, and the wind is whipping through my hair.

The stone-colored clouds have that clumpy, marshmallowy look to them that says a storm is coming, and the smell of rain confirms it.

Even though it’s September, it’s still pretty balmy during the day, but I’m hoping that’ll fade in a few weeks, along with the summery shades of green, to the warm oranges of fall.

I’m about half a mile from the house when I notice a wide wooden sign on the side of the road peeking out between two paper birch trees with the words “Fast Glass Tavern” carved into it with a neon-lit arrow pointing ahead.

This must be the closest neighbor we have, and it’s a bar. I’ve never gone this way home before; otherwise, I would’ve noticed this, and I would’ve gone in to check the place out. They might even be hiring.

I pull onto the dirt driveway, and it takes me past the circular keg shaped building.

There are two other keg-shaped parts of the building that are shorter, one on each side of the central barrel, and attached.

Outside, there’s an area with picnic tables beneath rows of twinkling string lights, and a stone path from the outdoor seating to a manicured lawn with several games including cornhole, oversized Jenga and Connect Four, and a giant chessboard.

Since it’s three p.m. on a Wednesday, the place is relatively empty. My car is one of four in the lot.

Inside, there’s a booth to the left against the circular wall with a few men who look to be in their fifties, drinking tall glasses of beer and playing cards.

In the center of the room is the glistening mahogany bar.

It takes up most of the space in this main part of the building, with the bar wrapping in a wide sphere, with a round shelving unit above it made of glass, holding the various bottles of liquor and clean glasses.

An elderly man occupies one of the stools at the bar, his glass empty and his neck craned back as he watches the baseball game on the TV above the bartender.

The bartender lifts his head at the sound of the door closing behind me.

He smiles, and my jaw falls open. This man is so unbelievably gorgeous, it’s difficult to look directly at him. It feels like I’m looking at the sun. A sun that also rides a motorcycle and would break the nose of a guy who cat-called you.

His inky black hair is shaved and faded on the sides, but the top is long and tousled.

There’s a clump of hair in the front that’s gone gray, a tidy burst of silver that looks intentional, adding to his naturally cool aura.

He has a trim, mostly gray beard that surrounds a set of pouty lips.

My gaze drifts over his cheekbones––sharp enough to cut my hand on––and I notice that his skin has a greenish tint to it.

That’s weird. It must be the lighting in here.

“Hi there, ma’am,” he says, with a slight Southern drawl. I’ve never minded being called ma’am . It doesn’t make me feel old, just awestruck that there are still men in this country with manners. “Sit anywhere you’d like, and I’ll come to you.”

Goosebumps race across my skin, and I can’t decide if it’s because of the air conditioner they seem to be blasting in here, or if it’s the power of his velvety voice.

“Uhh, hi. Yup, okay,” I mumble, willing my feet to move.

I grab the bar stool closest to me, and when I put my purse on the stool to my right, I notice my folder full of resumes and remember why I’m here.

Stop drooling. You need a job. Money. Stability.

Mr. Dreamy Drinkman strolls over, his shoulders and biceps straining against the fabric of his heather-black t-shirt. He tosses a towel over his shoulder with such ease and charisma, you’d think he got lessons from Ted Danson himself. “What can I get for you?”

I’m going to have to learn how to string together a sentence if I have any hopes of working with him.

“I, um… Well, I just moved here, and I wondered if you were hiring?” My voice comes out shaky and small, and I worry I’ve already blown it.

He takes my resume and scratches his beard as he looks it over. “Actually, yeah, I could use some help behind the bar. One of my full-time bartenders just left for college. It looks like you have a few years of experience as a waitress. Ever mix a drink before?”

“Yes, at my last job, I’d help out if the bartenders were short-staffed.

” My right hand is pinching part of my skirt into a little wrinkled ball––an anxious tick––but it’s doing nothing to calm me down.

“There are a lot of drinks I don’t know how to make, but I’ve made dozens of martinis, negronis, and whiskey sours. ”

“Well, hey,” he says with an easy smile. “That’s a great start. We can teach you the rest. Name’s Dominic, by the way.”

He offers his hand, and when I shake it, I can’t help but compare it to Winston’s.

The way his hand felt when it was just cold fog passing through mine, and immediately after, when his hand took on a corporeal form and I could actually shake it.

Butterflies fill my stomach at the way his rough palm rubbed against my own, and the soft, rumbling chuckle he let out at my reactions to both.

Dominic’s hand is equally large, but I don’t feel the same crackle of electricity that I felt when I held Winston’s.

“What do you think of Mapletown so far?” Dominic asks, bringing me back to the present. He steps away to pour me a glass of ice water.

“Truthfully, I haven’t gotten to explore much of it yet. Today was the first time I walked around town,” I explain. “It’s cute, but I was mostly looking for job postings in windows, so I didn’t try any of the delicious food I saw or spend hours in the bookstore like I would’ve wanted.”

“Where are you staying? Pebblebrook Inn?”

“Uh, no. I’m right next door, actually. An old house called Caraway Manor. Know it?”

His light blue eyes widen at first, then his expression morphs into something else. Like he’s impressed. “Really? You bought the haunted house on the hill?”

“Ha! No. There’s no way I could afford a place like that. My best friend inherited it from her grandmother, and she’s letting me stay there.”

Dominic nods, coming back to my place at the bar and leaning down on his elbows. “Right, I was sorry to hear about Penelope. Nice lady.”

The old man on the other side of the bar lifts his glass and groans to get Dominic’s attention.

“Coming right up, Vlad.” He turns to me and holds up a finger. “To be continued.”

When he places the full glass in front of Vlad, it’s red. It also looks…thick. Is he having a Bloody Mary in the afternoon? Where’s the celery stick?

Dominic wipes his hands on the towel still strewn over his shoulder as he returns to me.

“Now, where were we?” he asks, picking up my resume again. He goes back to staring at it, and my palms get clammy.

He’s looking at the gaps. Judging the time between jobs. Thinking I’m an unreliable fuck-up.

As the self-loathing thoughts get louder, I panic and blurt, “I know it looks like I jump around, never settling at one job long enough to figure out what the hell I’m doing, but I promise it’s not like that.

My mom got sick, then she got better, but then the cancer came back, so I was her caregiver until she passed last month. I’m here now, and I want to stay here.”

His gaze softens as he puts my résumé flat on the bar. “I’m sorry for your loss, Natalie. Truthfully, I wasn’t thinkin’ that. I was thinkin’ how incredible your timing is.”

“My timing?”

He nods. “I lost a bartender, and then you show up lookin’ for a job. Plus, you’re stayin’ at Caraway Manor, so obviously you’re cool with…you know.”

I…don’t.

“The strange and unusual.”

Is he talking about Winston? Does he know him somehow? If I’m supposed to keep my dead roommate’s existence a secret from Lindsay, there’s no way I’m exposing him to Dominic aka Mr. Dreamy Drinkman aka my potential new boss.

Rather than answer him, I quote one of my all-time favorite movies. “Well, of course. I, myself, am strange and unusual.”

Dominic laughs, throwing his head back and exposing his thick, muscular neck.

“Nicely done. I have a feelin’ you’ll fit right in.

” Then his mood shifts to something serious.

Darker. He interlaces his fingers in front of him, his mouth forming a flat line.

“There’s one rule here that the staff follows, and really, everyone in town follows.

I need you to promise me you’ll do the same if I hire you. ”

“Of course.”

“We don’t judge anyone who walks through that door.

We serve them drinks, feed them, listen to them, and protect them from causin’ harm to themselves or others.

But no matter what they look like, where they came from, how they sound, or how they live their lives, we do not judge.

This is a no-tolerance policy here at Fast Glass for judgement. Understand?”

Does Dominic think I’m racist? That I’ll refuse to serve a customer based on their skin color or who they love? I try not to take it personally. Maybe he’s had a few bad apples roll through here in the past.

“We serve. We don’t judge. Not a problem,” I vow. “Totally on board with that.”

His lips quirk up on both sides before revealing his supremely white teeth in a wide smile.

They also appear to be slightly pointed at the ends, but maybe the lighting is to blame for this too.

“Then welcome to the team.” He puts a menu in front of me.

“Dinner’s on the house. Let me know what you want, and I’ll tell you about some of our more peculiar regulars. ”