Decisions We Make After Midnight (Decisions in Durham Book 1) by Rachel Higginson

Author:Rachel Higginson [Higginson, Rachel]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Reckless Siren Publishing
Published: 2021-09-27T16:00:00+00:00

14

“Welcome to hell.” Ada stood over the bar, a hose line in her hand spitting water into a bucket on the floor. Her tone was as bored as her expression.

I motioned around me. “Is hell this place in general? Or that specific task?”

She looked down at the bucket as if just noticing it. “You know, I’m not sure.”

Sliding onto a barstool next to her, I couldn’t help but ask, “Do you even like it here, Ada? Or is this job holding you back?”

Her eyebrows jumped. I’d surprised her with my honest question. “You know what, literally nobody has ever asked me that before.” She thrust the thin hose into my hand. “Your turn. Just hold it still. It’s kind of wily.” Then she disappeared into the kitchen without answering my, albeit probing, questions.

The line wasn’t very wily right now. It was attached to the bar sink and filling a five-gallon bucket very slowly, so it mostly just spat and sputtered. It was Friday, and I’d come in early to help everyone get ready for the Ink Swell limited release night. There would be rare bottles of beer, Ink Swell-inspired cocktails, and their summer beer on tap. Will, Eliza, and Charlie were expecting basically the entire legal drinking demographic of Durham to show up tonight.

I honestly didn’t know the purpose for the hose or the bucket, and Ada wasn’t sticking around to explain it to me. I’d been getting the hang of things around the bar over the past couple weeks, but this task was entirely new. And I hadn’t been expecting to walk in the door and get to work.

“Clock me in please,” I called after her. She threw a wave over her shoulder without looking back at me. I hoped someone else stepped out of the kitchen soon because I wasn’t sure what to do next.

The front door opened, and I had to shift around to face the right direction. The newcomer turned out to be a very good-looking man. He entered the bar basked in the afternoon sunlight and seemed to almost glow and glisten as he stepped forward to where I could see him. He was dressed mostly professionally, in tailored light blue pants and a white Oxford, rolled up at the sleeves and open at the collar—exposing his throat and a light dusting of chest hair. I would have found that totally off-putting in any other circumstances, but it somehow managed to be totally alluring on this guy.

Instead of dress shoes or loafers, he wore Birkenstocks, which I thought was a little weird. But still, this guy seemed to be able to pull anything off. His hair was long-ish, brushing his shirt collar. And some tattoos were marking his exposed forearms. I couldn’t make out what they were from here, but I was willing to stare and figure it out if he was willing to step closer.

Maybe the strangest part about him was that he carried a clipboard and had a pencil tucked behind his ear and glasses pushed up into his hair like a headband.

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