An Endless Summer(12)

Yep! Time for a break, though! I headed downstairs, swung around the end bannister and dragged my feet across the restaurant towards the front bar. Grabbing a bottle of Coke from the lower fridge, I selected a pot glass and went to shovel some ice from the bucket. But all there was in there was water.

“Damn it.”

I rolled my eyes, cursing Matt, and looked around. Melted ice was the least of my problems; the bar was filthy, unstocked and disorganised. And deserted. It was also the first time I realised that I was utterly alone here. Never in my life had I seen the bar unmanaged, or the place entirely empty. Even on its quieter days, there had always been a wayward drunk propped up in the corner, or a few locals in for a cold one and a quiet game of pool. I had sent Matt home with little thought that it was something my dad would never have done in a million years, no matter how bad things got.

The thought unsettled me some; what if Dad found out I had closed the pub? He would be furious and I would be whipped home so fast my head would spin.

Ha, I thought. I looked around at the cracked lino behind the bar, the shrivelled, two-day-old lemon wedges near the cash register, the smell of rotten, unwashed beer mats that festered on the bar. It was his fault! He had abandoned this place and left some useless bartender in charge. And where was the rest of the staff? The cleaner, the cook, the waitress, the dish pig … where were the customers?! There was no life here. The Onslow Hotel was dead.

I made my way around from behind the bar, careful not to spill my warming Coke, and headed into the poolroom. As I walked through the entry, it was sticky underfoot. Gross. I noted the stained outline of a spilled drink from God knows when. I slammed my Coke down and leaned over the bar in search of something to clean with. It took some finding. After I had wiped up the sticky residue, then I would rest, I promised myself.

On my hands and knees, I worked on edging through the sticky, dirty mark that had splashed against the skirting; it smelled like something fruity and stale. My intense concentration was disturbed by the screeching of the front door on its hinges. I was flooded with sunlight. I cursed under my breath; obviously Matt hadn’t locked the door on his way out. I sat back on my heels and held my arm to my face, shielding my eyes from the light.

“I’m sorry, we’re clo—”

I eyed a tall figure leaning against the doorframe, sporting a smug smile.

Sean.

I was suddenly aware of how disgustingly dishevelled I must look, kneeling amidst a sticky, soap-sudded mess, water staining my T-shirt, wisps of hair escaping my ponytail. I wiped my brow and pushed away the strands of hair that blocked my vision. I warily dropped the scrubbing brush back into the bucket. Sean leaned carefree in the doorway, the backdrop of sunlight glowing around his six-foot-three stance. Down on my knees before him, I suddenly felt so incredibly small. My eyes trailed over him; his Blundstone work boots, navy blue work pants, and matching navy singlet. His folded arms accentuating the broadness of his chest. My eyes met briefly with the amused glint in his. His brows rose as his teeth flashed under a cheeky grin.

“You’ve missed a spot.”

My cheeks flushed as I thought he was referring to my eyes that had unashamedly roamed over him, but as he glanced to the floor, I snapped out of my daze and looked down to a grubby spot I had indeed missed.

Nothing infuriated me more than that old, smart-arse, ‘missed a spot’ joke. It was something I had always heard from my older cousins, Chris and Adam, who had loved to taunt me every summer when they’d helped out at the pub. Sweeping in the beer garden, you missed a spot. Varnishing the silver, you missed a spot. Washing a dish, you missed a spot. My scowl deepened at the memory as I stood and dusted the grime from my knees, dampened from kneeling in dirty, soapy water.

I grabbed the bucket and made my way to walk around behind the bar.

“We’re closed,” I threw over my shoulder.

Walking in the little alcove that housed the sink and dishwasher, I tipped the dirty water from the bucket down the sink and winced at the putrid blackness of the once fresh liquid. Rinsing the bucket out and putting it back where I had found it, I vigorously washed my hands before paper towelling them dry. I made my way back behind the main bar, where Sean had already pulled up and relaxed onto a stool, propping his elbows on the bar.

“Bad day?” he asked with an amused lift of his brow.

“You mean apart from nearly falling to my death? No, other than that, I’m just peachy.”

Sean’s smile broadened as he tapped his hand on the bar. “That’s the spirit!”

I didn’t share his enthusiasm. I knew I was being unreasonably snappy; it wasn’t Sean’s fault that my dad had turned out to be a chain-smoking hoarder who had left the family business to a lazy douche like Matt to run into the ground.