Page 21 of More than Fiction (Misty Springs #1)

Sophia

Monday nights were a toss-up. Sometimes, we were so busy that it was all hands on deck. Others were painfully slow. Tonight was one of the slow nights.

Devyn wanted to get cut. Sam asked her to see his nephew’s preschool play, which would undeniably be a chaotic but adorable train wreck.

She offered to drive me home after we closed, but I didn’t want to interrupt her night.

I told her I’d get a ride from Terry, one of our cooks. My apartment was on his way home, I just had to deal with his obnoxious advances, and hope we weren’t so slow that he tried to leave early.

“Thanks, Sophia. Take care,” Pete, one of my regulars, mumbled as he laid down a twenty and slid off the bar stool.

He slipped on his tweed coat, which may have once fit his swollen frame but now clung to him uncomfortably, and adjusted his glasses, pushing them up his red-flushed nose.

Being a bartender sometimes felt like juggling a dozen different jobs at once.

Some nights, I was a therapist, guiding someone through the chaos of a messy break-up.

Other times, I played a mother, calling Hank to give a young, freshly twenty-one-year-old a ride home after his friends abandoned him—leaving him passed out on one of my barstools.

But then there were the darker moments—when I felt more like a dealer. Serving someone another drink, fully aware it was feeding their worst habits. Knowing it was hurting them, but taking their money anyway .

It left me torn between enabling their escape and denying them what little solace they seemed to find in the bottom of a glass.

“Is Hank giving you a ride?” I asked Pete.

He nodded and shuffled his feet toward the door.

I slid his crumpled-up twenty off the bar and closed his tab.

Pete always came in on two-dollar well night, always drank Jim Beam straight, always had the same total—eighteen dollars—and always left me the same two-dollar tip. His tip brought my grand total tonight to a whopping… twenty-eight dollars.

I sighed as I dropped the two one-dollar bills in my apron. Considering we were nearing the end of the night, I didn’t expect much more to come my way.

Terry strutted through the swinging door to the kitchen. He threw a towel over his shoulder and tightened the knot on the back of the black bandana that clung to his head.

Grabbing a plastic soda cup, he filled it from the fountain machine behind the bar and scanned the nearly empty room.

“Slow night,” he commented, letting out an obnoxiously loud belch after taking a long sip.

“Very,” I replied with a polite smile.

I hesitated, weighing my options. I hated bumming rides, but the thought of walking home alone after midnight wasn’t exactly thrilling.

“Hey, Terry, do you think you could give me a ride home tonight? I know it’s slow, but if you're hanging around?”

“What do I get out of it?” He raised his eyebrows in an exaggerated waggle.

“Never mind,” I muttered, heading toward the only occupied table.

A group of three guys had closed out their tabs and finished watching the game twenty minutes ago. Now, they were just nursing the last sips of their beers.

“Wait, wait.” Terry laughed, jogging a few steps after me and grabbing my arm lightly. “I’m kidding, c’mon.”

I crossed my arms and faced him. His gaze dipped—too obviously—before snapping back up to my face.

“It’s no big deal. I can walk.” I turned away again .

“Stop, I’m sorry!” He blocked my path. “Seriously, sorry. It’s just… when you cross your arms like that, your, uh… your…” He waved vaguely at my chest. “They were looking at me, is all.”

“Terry,” I groaned, more weary than angry.

“I know, I know! Look, I’ll give you a ride home. I was only joking, I’ll stop.”

I gave him a tight-lipped smile. “Thank you.”

I slipped past him, heading for the table I knew didn’t need anything, but needing a reason to walk away.

I couldn’t wait to have my own car again. Another crappy night of tips and yet another reminder that I was stuck begging for rides made me long for a sign—anything from the universe to tell me things were going to get better.

The universe must have finally decided to get off its ass because before I reached the edge of the bar, the front door opened, and in walked the last person I expected to see.

Mr. 1B, himself.

COO of Buescher Enterprises. Manhattan’s Top 30 Under 30.

Star of way too many of my recent—and very vivid—dreams.

Corbin Buescher.

Corbin walked like a man with purpose—his long strides oozed confidence like he’d been commanding rooms since birth.

His dark coat hung over a navy suit, one I was sure clung to him just right, tailored to perfection down every decadent inch of him.

I forced myself to blink, breathe, and swallow—to remember how to function like a normal human being. Every muscle in my body was tense, every nerve alive with the awareness of him.

Whatever task I was set out to perform instantly vanished, and I turned awkwardly in a few half circles as I tried to nonchalantly look busy. I picked up an already-cleaned pint glass and casually wiped it with a towel, giving every ounce of my attention and energy to the extraneous task.

I watched him in my periphery as he shrugged out of his coat and perched himself on a barstool. Even with the glass in my hand as my main focus, I could make out the muscles in his frame, the sharp lines of his face, and his ridiculously perfect black-as-night hair.

He’s just some guy , I told myself .

Some obnoxiously handsome guy who could hold the fate of your future in his hands.

But still, he’s just some guy.

“That uniform looks more appropriate than your other one.” His voice carried across the nearly empty barroom like a low rumble of thunder, sending an involuntary thrill over my skin.

I cleared my throat, ignoring his comment and the memories it spurred. “Can I get you a drink?”

He stared at me for a beat, his expression unreadable, before shifting his gaze past me to the rows of bottles lining the wall.

“WhistlePig Ten Year. Neat.” His eyes found mine as he placed his order. “Please.”

My eyes dipped to his lips, and I swallowed hard before quickly turning to reach for the bottle. Even with my back turned, I felt his presence, my body burning under his stare.

I steadied my shaking hand as I poured his drink, trying not to form a list of why someone like me should feel inadequate around someone like him.

Add in the fact that he practically owned the company I was desperate to work for—and that I’d called him an asshole a couple of times—and I was a bundle of nerves threatening to unravel.

And beneath all of that? I was still angry. Angry about what he’d said in the hotel room. About the accusations he’d made that I was sneaking around behind some fictitious boyfriend’s back. The way he looked at me like I was just another girl playing games.

I slid the glass toward him, swallowing the words I really wanted to say.

This wasn’t about setting the record straight—not right now.

“Look. About what I said before.”

His brow arched, amusement flickering across his face as he silently waited for me to continue.

“When I called you an asshole, I mean. I shouldn’t have said that. It was uncalled for.”

“Which time?” He took a slow sip of his drink, setting the glass down, his large hands slowly spinning it on the bar top.

“I guess both.” I bit my lip, trying not to smile despite myself. “I didn’t realize you heard me on the plane. ”

He gave a sly smile, his eyes crinkling in the corners. His expression shifted from a teasing playfulness to a mask of humility. “You weren’t wrong.”

I blinked, surprised by his candor. “Well, be that as it may.” I grinned. “I’m still sorry.”

“And I’m sorry for being one. I can be… difficult. It tends to run in my family.”

The tension in the air eased slightly, the untouchable man before me becoming more corporeal with his admission. “So… what brings you in tonight?”

He shrugged, glancing around the dimly lit bar. “I hoped to find a place with a decent alcohol selection to admire.”

“And how did we do?” I asked, showcasing the display behind me.

“Not much to admire up there, but this place has its charm.” His eyes settled on my face with a kind of intensity that made my core tighten.

Was he flirting?

The scuffed and polished wooden bar acted as both a barrier and a bridge between us, and my thoughts churned as I debated my next move.

Just as I opened my mouth, Terry burst out of the kitchen, pulling on his jacket and keeping his eyes trained on his phone as he rotated it between the hands he shoved inside his sleeves.

“Soph, it’s so dead. I’m leaving,” he announced casually.

I frowned and gave Corbin a “one-moment” gesture as I pulled Terry to the side.

“But you were gonna give me a ride home,” I reminded him, trying to keep my voice low.

“Oh, shit. That’s right. I forgot.” Terry scratched the back of his head, feigning guilt. “Um…” he trailed off, looking for an excuse he didn’t seem interested in making.

I should have known better. Terry was not exactly reliable. He’d either called in or simply not shown up to work so many times, I was surprised Theresa hadn’t fired him years ago.

“Don’t worry about it.” I waved him off, after all, it wasn’t Terry’s fault I didn’t have a car .

The thought of cutting into my meager tips to pay Hank for a ride wasn’t appealing, maybe it wasn’t too cold for the long walk home.

“Great! See ya,” Terry said cheerfully, vanishing out the door without a backward glance.

I watched the kitchen door as it swayed back and forth, then began pacing behind the bar, muttering under my breath.

“I could give you a ride home.” Corbin’s voice cut through my tiny tantrum.

I turned to him, slightly embarrassed that he heard the exchange. “Oh, no. That’s okay. I’ve still got about an hour before I close up. It’ll be a late night.”

He raised his glass. “I’ve got time.”