“Yeah, not exactly a break from work, is it?”
“For future reference, Eric, to most people, the problem wouldn’t be working through dinner. It’s reading that over dinner. My stomach can handle it, though, so we’ll do that, and I’ll take a break now instead. I have a few outstanding issues to follow up on—”
“Your definition of taking a break is as shitty as my definition of suitable mealtime conversation.” His fingertips press into my back, that steering hand turning me left. “As your boss, I’m prescribing this instead.”
I glance up to see we’ve stopped outside the Roc.
Dalton says, “Earlier April wanted a drink. She can’t do that right now, but I’m going to suggest you have one for her. This is what they call ‘cocktail hour’ down south, isn’t it?”
“Not quite. Also, the bar doesn’t open until five o’clock, and even if you have the key, I’m not drinking alone.”
“You won’t be. Isabel’s doing inventory.”
“She’s not going to want—”
He shoves open the door and leans in to bellow, “Iz? Casey needs a drink.”
A shadowy figure leans out from the back. “Oh, so I’m playing bartender now?”
Dalton nudges me inside before I can protest. The door shuts, and I’m immersed in cool darkness, lighting only as my eyes adjust to the candles on the bar. The shutters are pulled, both to keep out the strong sunlight and to warn off anyone who might consider sneaking into the Roc for their own private happy hour.
I walk to Isabel, standing beside the bar. She wears an apron over a stylish sundress, her hair piled on her head, dust streaking one cheek.
As she reaches for a glass, I say, “You don’t need to serve me a drink. I can get my own if I want one, and I don’t. Eric’s just fussing. I’m happy to help with inventory.”
“Sit.” She pours something from a condensation-stippled jug and then adds a deft shot of vodka. “You can help by sampling my new cocktail. Blackberry-infused vodka with lemonade.” She puts the jug back into a basin and flips two ice cubes into the drink. “Those will cost extra.”
“Naturally.” I take a sip. “Nice. Very refreshing. Is this what I’ll actually get if I order it? Or will the official version be a little lighter on the vodka and heavier on the lemonade?”
“It’s getting warm out, and alcohol dehydrates.”
I settle onto a barstool. “You know, you look good back there, Iz. No need to hire a new bartender. You can just do the job yourself.”
She extends a middle finger as she rearranges the bottles.
“Why not?” I say. “You were a shrink. You’re used to having people tell you their problems.”
“I got paid for it.”
“So? Make a new policy. Telling the bartender your woes is free. Getting advice, though? That’ll cost you.”
She snorts and starts wiping the counter. “Obviously you haven’t ever been to therapy, Casey, or you’d know that’d be the worst moneymaking scheme ever. Most people don’t need advice. They just need someone who’ll listen to them.”
“I actually have had therapy.” I sip my spiked lemonade. “And you are one-hundred percent correct. I wanted someone to listen to me talk.”
“Listen to you confess, more like,” she says, slanting a look my way.
“True enough. Now I have Eric for that. Problem is, he also gives advice. So much advice.”
She chuckles. “Our sheriff is quite certain he knows what everyone needs. Sometimes he’s even correct. As in this case. I need a bartender, and I am ready to hire one.”
“Mmm, pretty sure you’ve been hiring them. And firing them. And hiring more.”
“Well, I’m ready to hire a proper one now.”
I nod and
say nothing as she pours herself a lemonade even stiffer than mine. Isabel hasn’t had a real bartender since Mick died, eighteen months ago. Mick, former cop, expert bartender … and Isabel’s lover.