Her head spun with possibilities. Between Dalton’s, Tristan’s, and her own expertise, she knew she could furnish a good chunk of the house with finds from the Barn. They needed love and renovation, and each piece told a story and would be the focus of the room.
Usually at every step she would question whether each pick would fit the personality and lifestyle of her client. But this time she seemed off. Maybe it was best to go with a different approach. Trust her gut instead of the couple’s last feedback. What if she designed this home by allowing the furnishings to dictate the theme? One outstanding piece would pull the room together. Then she’d build the Rosenthals’ flavor and style around the centerpiece.
She’d Tim Gunn it and make it work.
Morgan set up a revolving account with Mr. Reynolds, the owner and seemingly only worker at the place. She tagged her buys and made arrangements to come back later in the week to go through the rest of her list. Once she mentioned Caleb and his brothers, he relaxed and seemed willing to work with her on finding more pieces that might fit her vision.
When they finally reached the bar, Morgan slid onto her chair, exhausted but replete with satisfaction. Sydney shook her head and laughed. “You look like you just had sex.”
Morgan didn’t even have the strength to blush. “I feel like it. Maybe this is why I love my job, too. I’ve become a professional shopper.”
“Braggart.”
Morgan grinned and looked around. This was definitely not the type of bar-restaurant boasted about in the village of Harrington. It was a massive open space with a huge potential for greatness, but it needed some TLC. The rustic raftered ceiling, scarred wood floors, and eclectic art pieces made of odd assortments of wood screamed vintage. The bar must’ve been impressive years ago, with a huge brick wall setting off the endless bottles and glasses displayed with pride. The old mahogany was stripped and dull, and the surface needed refinishing, but if it were ever restored, it would be a mighty presence. The shadowed interior kept things intimate, encouraging secrets to be shared. The pool table and dartboard in the back contributed to the atmosphere of casualness, and the booths and chairs were simple wood with red vinyl padding. Knickknacks exploded from shelves and corners: bobbleheads, festive shot glasses, pictures, and interestingly shaped mirrors. Two big-screen televisions took up the corners. The scents of burgers and fries drifted in the air, and an impressive line of drafts was set up to satisfy a range of beer tastes.
“Whatcha drinking, ladies?”
The bartender had long coal-black hair that curled wildly around her face, inky dark eyes, and a badass manner. A diamond glinted in the side of her nose, and her nails were long and scarlet red. She wore jeans and a leather-fringed tank top and had a tattoo on her shoulder of a knife glinting with blood at the tip. Fascinated, Morgan leaned in. “White wine. Chardonnay. I like your tat.”
The woman gave her a hard stare, as if trying to decide if she was being mocked. Finally she nodded. “Thanks.” She turned to Sydney. “You?”
“Harp.”
Her movements were lightning quick and graceful, and in seconds, their glasses were in front of them. Sydney and Morgan shared an impressed look. Sydney spoke up. “You’re new here, right? Heard they got a new owner.”
The woman cocked a hip, crossed her arms in front of her chest, and scowled. “I’m the owner.”
Sydney grinned. “Awesome. We needed some new blood in this place. Do the burgers still rock?”
“They’re better.” The woman paused, then seemed to make a decision. “I’m Raven.”
“Sydney. This is Morgan—she’s new in town, too.”
Morgan nodded at her. She wondered if Raven was more Caleb’s type. She definitely didn’t wear white, or scream relationship, or seem like a control freak. The thought depressed her.
Raven pushed two menus over. “I updated some of the apps. Wanna switch to a booth or eat at the bar?”
“Here’s good,” Morgan said. There was something so deliciously decadent about eating in an informal setting. She remembered all those years of perfect china and place settings and crisp linen napkins from her parents’ tutelage. It wasn’t a bad thing to know, but how badly did she crave to eat in front of the television or with plastic cutlery for a change? Her mother would have a breakdown if she knew her only child now frequented drive-throughs and usually ate room service in front of the TV. Her Southern roots embraced big dining tables and proper eating utensils. Her rebellious years got wiped out when she got her diagnosis of cancer. While her friends partied and dealt with college romances, she’d been in a hospital and had a long recovery. Of course, she tried to make up for it later, but by that time she’d been involved with Elias, and he frowned on frequenting bars. Now she finally had a valid opportunity.
“You got it,” Raven said. She lingered, her gaze touching on the white wine, then flicking back up to her face. “I stock a decent label, but I specialize in cocktails. I can make them whiskey based, rum, vodka, champagne . . . Wanna try one?”
Morgan looked down at her glass. The last time she drank anything but white wine was . . . well, it was . . . well, maybe never? She nibbled on her lip. “I’m not sure what I like,” she finally said.
Raven gave a slow grin. “Can’t have that. I need a virgin palette to test some brews. I’ll get you a few samples on the house.” She turned to Sydney. “You in?”
Sydney rubbed her palms together. “Hell yes.”