I drive into town, not even caring that the dirt road is kicking up all kinds of dust and making my black car dirty. I’m in a great mood as I park in a public lot across from the Town Pub. I check my reflection, resist the urge to apply a coat of lipstick—locals don’t seem to wear it here—grab my purse, and hop out of my car. I cross the street and notice a piece of paper taped to the inside of the window that reads BARTENDER NEEDED.

I can’t tell if it’s a new or old sign because the windows need a serious wash, but it doesn’t hurt to check it out. I know how to make a mean martini, a margarita to die for, and a delicious manhattan. I’m also a self-proclaimed wine aficionado. I’m pretty much an ideal candidate for the job.

I roll my shoulders back and hold my head high as I push through the doors. The first thing I smell is beer. The second is fried food. The third is some kind of cleaner. The interior is dark and the tables are wood, the booths and seats all stained mahogany. It reminds me of an old English pub, which is fitting.

Surprisingly, a good number of tables are occupied this early on a Friday afternoon. Older couples sit in the booths, and several men of various ages occupy the stools, a few sitting next to each other, watching a game on the TV above the bar, sipping pints or bottles of beer.

A man stands behind the bar, a dish towel thrown over his shoulder, pouring pint after pint. There’s one server on the floor, loading up her tray and stopping at each table to chat and deliver drinks.

I step up to the bar and wait.

“What can I get for you?” he asks as he sets a beer in front of the man beside me. He smells like metal and cigarette smoke. Not the bartender but the man sitting at the bar.

“Is the bartending position still available?” I ask and then smile brightly.

The bartender arches a brow. “What kind of experience do you have?”

“I brought my résumé if you’d like to see it.” I reach into my purse, but he holds up his hand.

“I don’t need to see a résumé. Have you ever tended bar before?”

“I’ll take another pint, Louis.” The guy down the other end of the bar holds up his nearly empty pint glass.

“On it,” Louis says.

He moves down to the taps, and I move with him, standing on the other side of the three men lining the bar.

“Can you pour a pint?” he asks.

“Absolutely.” I nod vigorously and watch as he tips the glass and pulls the lever, beer pouring out in a golden stream. When it’s three-quarters of the way full, he straightens the glass and about half an inch of foam appears, rising to the rim. He delivers it to the customer.

He turns away from me, and for a moment I think I’m being dismissed without so much as thanks, but no thanks.

At least until he tosses an apron over the bar when he turns back to me. “Let’s see what you got.”

“You mean you want me to start now?”

“The afternoon rush is about to start. Consider this your interview.”

“Right. Okay.” I tie the apron around my waist. “Should I come back there?”

“That’s generally the best way to tend bar.”

I blow out a breath, muttering, “You can do this. You can serve drinks.”

“You can leave your purse there.” He motions to a space under the bar. “And you can’t wear your hair down.” He tosses me an elastic band.

The kind you’d find wrapped around a bunch of broccoli.

“I have a hair tie.” I rummage around in my bag until I find one and pull my hair into a ponytail, then tuck my purse under the bar.

“I’m Teagan.” I hold out my hand.

He gives it one short pump. “Louis. I’ll give you a rundown, try to keep up.”

He tells me which beer is at each tap, and I do mnemonics to remember what a lager, pale ale, IPA, red ale, wheat beer, and dark ale are. There are only two kinds of wine: red and white. They’re both table wines, which I assume means they’re cheap and probably not very good. I keep that thought to myself, though.

A pair of men come in and take two seats at the bar. It’s just after three thirty in the afternoon.

“You’re up. The guy on the left is Mike, and the one on the right is Jerry. They work at the ice cream factory in the next town over. Mike drinks the pale ale, and Jerry drinks the wheat beer. Ask them if they want the special. They usually do.”

“Okay. Should I ask them what they want to drink first or—” His arched brow tells me everything I need to know. “I’ll pour the beers.”

Tags: Helena Hunting Lakeside Romance
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