I take a deep breath and make my way down the bar. His phone is in his hands, the corners of his mouth pulled down in a frown. At my approach he sets the device facedown on the bar and lifts his head. His mouth opens and closes, that frown deepening and a furrow appearing between his brows. Here we go. I steel myself, ready for his prickly demeanor.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he barks.
Mike and Jerry, who are still sitting at the bar several stools down, food long eaten, beers replaced with coffee, both glance our way.
I smile brightly, not wanting him to see how his sharp tone affects me. “I work here.”
“Since when?” His furrow turns into something between shock and annoyance.
“Since today.”
“I thought you were here for the weekend.”
“Plans change.” And mine have changed a lot in forty-eight hours. “What can I get you, Aaron?”
He blinks a couple of times and blows out a breath. “I’ll wait for Louis.”
I lift one shoulder and let it fall, as if his snub doesn’t mean a thing to me. But it drives me bonkers that he has clear disdain for me for no reason I can see. I shouldn’t care, and yet it feels a lot like a challenge I want to take on to get him to change his tune. I saunter down the bar, checking on customers, making sure drinks are topped up or bills are handed over and change is made as I go. It’s a full five minutes before I reach the other end of the bar, where Louis is.
“Aaron want his usual?”
“I’m not sure. He said he’d wait for you.”
Louis raises a single eyebrow. It seems to be his thing. “Do you know how to make a root beer float?”
“Isn’t it root beer and vanilla ice cream?”
“Yup, but he likes his topped with whipped cream and a cherry.”
I glance over my shoulder to the end of the bar, where Aaron is once again chatting up the two older women, and then back at Louis. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Nope. Think you can handle it?”
“It shouldn’t be a problem.” Ice cream and soda should not be something I can mess up.
“Then go for it. And put in an order for the special, but he likes Caesar salad instead of fries, and one onion ring on his burger. And you don’t need to bring him the ketchup and mustard; he takes barbecue sauce instead.”
I repeat the order back to him to make sure I got everything, then key it into the system and get to work making the root beer float. I fill a float glass two-thirds of the way with root beer before I disappear into the kitchen.
There’s a teenage boy-man working on salads, listening to music. It sounds more like someone is beating the instruments in a tuneless, angry battle and stabbing the singer with pins, but to each his own. He bobs his head to the maniacal beat. When it looks like he’s about to break into a drum solo, I interrupt.
“Hi.”
He nearly drops the metal bowl full of romaine lettuce, dressing, and imitation bacon bits. He spins around, eyes wide. They skim over me, stopping at my feet for a second before rising back to my face. His cheeks explode with color. “Hi. Uh, who are you?”
“I’m Teagan. I just started working the bar today. Actually, I’m in the middle of my interview. And now I’m supposed to make a root beer float for Aaron Saunders. Do you know him?”
He nods twice. “Sure do.”
“Is he particular about his root beer float?”
“He sure is.”
“Wanna help a girl out so my interview goes well?” I tip my head to the side and smile.
“Yeah. For sure. I’m more than happy to help. I’m Tanner Freelton.” He wipes his hand on his white shirt and holds it out.
I take it, noting his palms are damp, probably because it’s hot back here. “We have the same initials. Teagan Firestone.”
“Firestone? Are you related to Van? Dillion Stitch’s boyfriend?”
“He’s her fiancé. They got engaged a while back.” I wonder how long it’s going to take for me to get used to the way everyone knows everyone else around here. “And I’m Van’s sister.”
“Right. Yeah. I knew that. That’s super cool. I mean, it’s cool that you’re Van’s sister. And that they’re engaged or whatever. My older sister is friends with Dillion. Allie. Anyway, let me help you with the root beer float.”
“Great. Thanks.”
I pass him the glass, and he pours some of the root beer into the sink. “It’s gonna foam a lot, so you don’t want it to get too messy. It’s kind of a science. And I don’t use the vanilla ice cream.”
“You don’t?”
“Nope. I use the caramel-ribbon swirl. Always two scoops.” He steps inside the walk-in freezer and returns with a giant container of ice cream. Then he shows me how big the scoops should be and allows me to carefully drop the first one in, then instructs me to set the second one on top, pushing the foam closer to the top of the glass, but it never overflows.