Ready or Not (13 page)

Once Brooklyn returned to the table, they chatted about work and about Hunter and Samantha’s dog Elvis and his uncanny ability to predict their return home. But Mallory’s heart wasn’t in it. She found herself distracted by the blonde behind the bar and the need, for whatever reason, to put things right between them.

“Mal, you look upset,” Brooklyn said, popping the cucumber sliver into her mouth. “Your Mallory eyebrows are all drawn down and such.”

“Will you excuse me for a second?”

Brooklyn shot a look at the bar and relaxed back into her chair, a celebratory smile taking shape. “Of course I will. I need to give Jess a call anyway. See if she’s home yet, so I can get in some quality time.”

“That’s totally code for sex,” Mallory said.

“Am I that obvious?” Brooklyn asked in seeming disappointment.

“Always, Brooks. Always.”

Brooklyn used her finger to write on an imaginary pad in the air as Mallory left her. “Must. Work. On. Subtlety.”

Hope was flipping through some sort of paperwork when Mallory edged through the gathering crowd for a tiny space at the bar. She knew she had only a short time before the lights would dim and the band would begin to play, making it a lot more difficult to hold a conversation. She sandwiched herself between two wide-eyed twenty-somethings batting their eyelashes obnoxiously.

“Got a sec?” she asked Hope, who glanced up and held her gaze a moment before answering.

“Sure. What can I get you?”

“I don’t need a drink. I thought we could talk, about the bar and what you said about working together.” She brushed the hair nervously from her forehead and cursed her rather predictable reaction to Hope. Didn’t seem to matter how many times it happened, though. Mallory still couldn’t get used to this flustered version of herself.

“You don’t have to do that,” Hope said, coming over to face Mallory.

“Well, maybe I want to.”

“But you don’t.”

Irritation flared. “Why don’t you let me decide what I do and don’t want to do?” Aha, she had her there. She could tell because Hope exhaled and nodded.

“Fine. Maybe we can set up a meeting. How does this normally work in your world?”

“I can come to you,” Mallory said and pulled out her phone containing the ins and outs of her schedule. “Why don’t I stop by Monday afternoon? Maybe sometime before opening?”

“Three o’clock?” Hope asked and scanned the bar to make sure all was well, a habit Mallory had picked up on. She definitely had a handle on the service at Showplace.

Mallory nodded and typed in the appointment. “I can do three.”

“Great,” Hope said, taking a step back.

“Perfect.” She should totally walk away now. That’s what a normal human would do.

“So Monday at three.”

“Exactly,” Mallory said. “Here. At this bar.” She nodded a couple of times too many and headed back to her table, mystified at her inability to remain cool, calm, and unaffected. What had happened to the Mallory Spencer she could count on?

Uncool, Universe. Very uncool.

*

As Hope filled out a supply order for the following week, she waited patiently for her newest hire to report to work. Something about the exchange she’d had with Teddy had stuck with her for the remainder of the night prior. Sophie seemed like a good kid, and letting her get her heart stomped on might not be the most neighborly thing to do.

Sophie was scheduled to work at four that day, and right at five minutes to the hour, she arrived. Thank God for an employee who knew how to be on time. She rounded the bar with a smile and stole a black cocktail apron from the shelf behind the bar. “Hi, Hope. How’s your day today?”

“Oh, you know, slaying dragons and making drinks.”

“Slaying dragons? Is that a bartending term?” Sophie asked in earnest. Bless her and those wide eyes of naïveté.

“Nope. That’s just me being stupid.”

“Oh,” Sophie said in catch-up mode, forcing a laugh. “Funny.”

“It’s really not, but because I’m in charge, you feel you have to laugh. I hereby free you of that obligation from now on, because life is too short. Wanna cut fruit with me?”

“Sure.” Hope handed Sophie a small knife and an orange.

“We’re going for wedges. Like this,” she said demonstrating smooth, even cuts. Sophie set to work, and it was clear she’d never be a surgeon as her jagged orange slices were pathetic at best. But that hadn’t exactly been the point of Hope inviting her to help.

“So you’ve been chatting with Katia some, I’ve noticed.”

Sophie smiled at Hope. “She’s hot. And kind of brooding too. I like hot and brooding.” And then something seemed to occur to her. “Oh. Am I not supposed to find the customers hot? I’m sorry. I can stop doing that.”

“No, there’s no firm rule. I just want you to know that Katia has a tendency to…drop girls moments after she gets what she wants from them. Do you follow?”

Sophie blinked back at her and Hope waited. “Oh! Oh my. You mean like sex?”

Hope bit back a smile. “Yes, like sex.” She set her knife down and turned to face Sophie. “Here’s the thing. You seem like a nice kid, and I would hate to see your heart ripped out. That’s all I’m saying here.”

“Wow. Thank you,” Sophie said, seemingly touched. “I’ve never worked for anyone who, I don’t know, cared.”

“Let’s not get carried away,” Hope said, but slid Sophie a sly smile. “Now since it seems you’re woefully challenged in the fruit department, and I do mean woefully, do me a favor and refill all the sweetener dispensers and check the condiments as well. You’ll see a shelf in the kitchen with everything you need.”

Sophie offered a little mock salute and headed out. “Thanks again, Hope, for the talk.”

“No problem.”

Hanging up her do-gooder hat, Hope pulled a small Moleskine journal from underneath the register, knowing she had a few spare minutes to do some brainstorming. In it she kept a list of some of the craft cocktails she planned to slowly introduce to her customers one at a time.

Something about the creation of a perfectly made drink pulled Hope in and got her excited about her job. It wasn’t just service; it was science and artistry mixed together. She wanted Showplace to be on the cutting edge of the artisanal cocktail scene, and if she wanted her bar to have that kind of reputation, she needed to focus on the details, as they were everything.

The temperature of the glass had to be just right and the measurements extra precise. Sugar content closely monitored. Garnishes needed to be fresh, inventive, and used to the fullest to bring out desired flavors. Hope didn’t want Showplace to be just a bar; she wanted it to be a brand, and one people could count on for delivery of top-quality cocktails, in addition to the run-of-the-mill stuff for the less adventurous. That kind of shift would put them on the map in a big way.

Hope had never been a big dreamer. She wasn’t interested in being rich or well known. But she wanted to take the one thing she loved to do and be good at it. And it just so happened that she loved this bar.

Now she just had to figure out how to use what little money she had to make that happen.

*

“So what made you want to try a new place?” Mallory asked her father as she made a fourth attempt with her knife and fork to attack her rubbery chicken. He laughed at her efforts, something he’d been doing for the past few minutes. That was one thing about her dad, he knew how to find enjoyment in pretty much any situation.

“I thought it would be fun to branch out. Go somewhere besides Adolpho’s,” he told her, “and now I remember why we never do. Hey, maybe the waiter will bring you a steak knife or a machete.”

“No, I can do it,” she said, and placed a tiny piece in her mouth, stifling a grimace at the dried-out bite. Her father only laughed more, and she glanced up from her plate to find him dabbing tears from the corners of his eyes. This was one of New York City’s most prestigious attorneys laughing until he cried at her lunch battle.

“Let’s get out of here,” he said finally. “We can grab a hot dog in the park. On me.”

“Best suggestion I’ve had all day.”

Luckily, they hadn’t been far from Central Park and the day was a beautiful one, warm and sunny, which invited lots of children with nannies, Rollerbladers, sunseekers, and even the occasional lounger reading a book under a tree. Mallory loved the park, though she didn’t often get the chance to explore it. She should make a point to change that.

She always looked forward to her weekly lunches with her father. It was the one thing she had, in a lineup of five other children, that was simply hers. Plus, she and her dad had always seen eye to eye, which made their bond all the more unique. She cherished the kindred-spirit quality of their connection.

They waited in line for the hot dogs and instead of snagging a bench made the decision to walk for a bit. Luckily, she’d come with sneakers in her bag.

“So whatever happened with that movie-theater chain?” her father asked, tossing a piece of his bun to a nearby squirrel.

“Still working it. No contract signed as of yet. The whole thing has me a tad on edge.”

“In what way?”

“We’re totally out of our element with this account, which means the margin for error is large.”

“Which is why you need to secure it,” he told her. “Uncomfortable is good for you. Don’t let anyone tell you different. If you lay up in life, stay where the water’s warm, you’ll be just fine, but nothing exciting will ever happen.”

Nothing exciting will ever happen
. It was good advice, but then, he was great at that, which is why she so often used him as her sounding board. “You’re right. I know, inherently, you are, but it can be hard to take a big risk when the odds of it not working out are overwhelming.” It’s possible she was no longer only alluding to the Big Top account.

“That’s what timid people say. I’ve never known you to be timid.”

She looked up at him. “I don’t want to be. In fact, it’s the last word I want to define me.”

“Then I think you know what you have to do. Embrace the uncomfortable.”

“Yeah, well, tall order.”

They turned back then, and Mallory knew that the distance to reach the park’s entrance would eat up their allotted time for lunch. “I have every confidence in you,” her father said, putting his arm around her shoulder. “And if the Big Top account doesn’t work out, you can always come to work for me.”

Mallory laughed, because law was so far from what she loved, it was hard to even imagine. Though once she’d wanted nothing more than to work with her dad. Instead, she’d modeled most of her business practices after him. Hard work. Ethical behavior. A sensitive leadership strategy. “I think I’ll stick with advertising, but thanks.”

“Suit yourself, kiddo.”

She tossed the remainder of her bun to the squirrel in their pathway, yet again following in her father’s footsteps.

Mallory turned the page of the book she was reading and realized absently that she’d never actually eaten dinner that night. Her thoughts shifted to her grumbling stomach and whether she should head to her pantry in favor of her standard salt-and-vinegar potato chips or branch out and go for BBQ. Tucked in for the evening on her couch, underneath her favorite green cashmere blanket, Mallory’s wild Saturday night had consisted of a glass of merlot and her old buddy, John Grisham. Before she’d made any firm potato-chip decision, her phone buzzed from its spot on her coffee table, and she glanced at the readout, a text from Brooklyn in all caps.

MIDNIGHT CHOCOLATE. MIDNIGHT CHOCOLATE. MIDNIGHT CHOCOLATE.

She pushed herself into a seated position and considered the text. Okay, so something was definitely up. The question was what. She slipped from underneath the warmth of the blanket and set the book aside. MCs were called only in the event of something major happening to one of the four of them. Something that simply could not wait and required urgent friend attention or counsel.

And they always figured it out.

It’s what made Midnight Chocolate the foolproof go-to that it was, dating back to the night they first came together and had chocolate waffles in the Village. She fired off a response.

“I’m in. See you there.”

“There” was Sam and Hunter’s loft apartment, formerly Sam and Brooklyn’s apartment. Either way, it was only four floors down from her own and the most convenient place for them all to meet. When she saw texts fly in from Hunter and Sam, both confirming for tonight, she checked her watch. God, it was literally eight minutes to midnight. Talk about last minute. She changed into her red plaid pajama pants and soft white T-shirt, grabbed an unopened bottle of Red Zin and some gourmet double-chocolate cookies from the deli on the corner, and was out the door.

She slid open the door to Sam and Hunter’s place with ninety seconds left to spare, which was good because she refused to be late to anything. Not in her DNA. Now Brooklyn was another story. “She’s not here yet, is she?” Mallory asked Sam, who stood behind the island uncorking a bottle of white.

“What do you think?”

“I think that Brooklyn, who called this MC, is not here, but that you have a chocolate spread on your counter sent from Baby Jesus above. Is that an Oreo cream-cheese ball? I will tackle you right now if that is an Oreo cream-cheese ball.”

“Aww, you noticed,” Sam said, swiping the dish in sidestep of the tackle and carrying it to the coffee table. Mallory pitched in as they transported malted-milk balls, four dishes of chocolate ice cream, hot fudge, sprinkles, a basket of miniature Snickers, the cookies she’d brought from upstairs, and of course a tin of MollyDolly truffles, a new staple.

Hunter emerged from the bedroom and lifted the wine Mallory brought from the counter and turned it around to face them. “This looks like the good stuff. Is this the good stuff?”

“It is, in fact, quite good,” Mallory assured her. “A ninety-two from
Wine Spectator
.”

“You really love us,” Sam said to Mallory, her hand placed over her heart. Her auburn hair was pulled into a loose ponytail that had her looking relaxed and happy in her PJs. But then again, maybe that was all Hunter’s doing, she thought as her two friends exchanged a rather heated glance. Okay, yep, there’d be some definite action at this place later.
Note to self: do not linger.