Mixed Up(10)

Given that I was as qualified as a mixologist at my age could be, it needed to be goddamn fancy.

"Well, that is the question." I did my best to keep my dryness out of my tone. "Thanks, Alex. I think that's everything I need from you right now. I have your number, so I'll be in touch." I closed my notebook and scooted my chair back so he got the message.

"Thanks, Ms. Archer. Or can I call you Raven?" he asked, as he stood up.

Oh, poor, sweet Alex.

If he weren't applying for a job, he could call me whatever the hell he wanted.

"Why don't we stick to Ms. Archer for now?" I smiled and walked to the door of the bar. "Thanks, Alex."

The second he stepped outside, I shut the door. I barely waited ten seconds before I twisted the lock and turned away.



       
         
       
        

God, that was so promising.

I was going to blame Ryan and Parker. There was no way I would be feeling like this if they hadn't trashed my menu. Expanding into food was a bad idea. I could feel it now. The knowledge was burying itself into my bones with my doubts laughing at me the whole time.

I collapsed onto the bar and grabbed my phone.





Me: I hate you.





My brother replied almost instantly.





Ryan: Bad interview?

Me: Went well until he told me to just add seafood to the menu.

Ryan: Why is that my fault?

Me: You told me it was shit and now it's all shit.

Ryan: It is shit. You're better than that stuff. Your food needs to reflect you and your ability to mix drinks.

Me: Not helping.

Ryan: Just ask Parker.





I blew out a long breath. I didn't like the idea. In fact, I loathed it, but he had offered.

The problem was that hiring Parker Hamilton was so far down my to-do list, I'd rather be fucked up the ass by Satan.

Ironically, hiring him and having Satan fuck me up the ass would probably be equally uncomfortable.





Me: Mmph.





That was the best answer he was going to get from me. It translated roughly to 'I'll think about it, but I'll do it with a huff.'





Ryan: Did Mom call you?

Me: No. Why?





That one question was sure to set alarm bells ringing in my mind. My mom never called-she avoided talking on the phone as much as possible.





Ryan: Uncle Deion got earlier flights. They'll be here three days early.





Oh no. No, no, no.





Me: They'll be here in two days instead?!?!?!?!

Ryan: Happy Wednesday, sis. Yia-Yia's gonna flip when she finds out you don't have a chef yet.





Oh god, he was right. I didn't always speak to my family in Greece, but when I did, it was always my grandmother, and she always wanted to know what I was doing with the bar. I'd left a lot out-like the dirty names of the drinks I mixed-but she was so excited to have her granddaughter open a restaurant and eat there.

It didn't matter that Dirty was a cocktail bar first. She was thrilled at the idea. The last time we'd spoken, she told me she wanted to eat here straight away.

She was already going to smash a plate or ten when she found out I wasn't serving Greek food. 

I couldn't break her heart twice, as crazy as she was.

I was going to have to bite the bullet.





Me: You win. I need Parker's number.





My brother's next message was his number followed by a stream of 'haha' over and over again. I knew he was delighting in this a little too much, but I wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of knowing he'd essentially won.

He was almost thirty, for the love of god. He really needed to grow up.

I literally had to bite my tongue as I tapped out a message to Parker asking if he was free tonight. I didn't send it until I'd walked into the kitchen. I actually hit the button by accident, but that was a good thing. I knew I'd chicken out otherwise.

The kitchen was a mass of gleaming stainless-steel. Every inch of it was clean, as nobody was allowed in here except the chefs I'd interviewed, and even then, I'd politely asked that they didn't touch anything.

What? Stainless-steel was a royal bitch to clean. I wanted to wait until I had someone else I could make clean it before anyone got to touch.

My phone dinged in my hand.





Parker: Yep.





Just that. Nice.





Me: Do you think you can come to the bar?

Parker: ...Sure?

Me: Is that a yes or a no? You sound confused.

Parker: Yes. Is 6:30 good?

Me: Can you make it 7? We get a rush around 6.

Parker: No problem. See you then.





***





I hated myself.

That was the only explanation I had for what I was doing. Twenty-four hours ago, I was resolute in the fact that I would not offer Parker Hamilton and his handsome face a job. Not even when he offered himself was it something I allowed myself to consider. It was a ridiculous idea that would ultimately go up in flames, but I'd spent the entire day reasoning with myself.