Chapter Text
Lia’s POV
I wipe the bar counter for what seems like the fifth time since my shift started. The happy hour rush had finally died down, leaving me with sore feet and even sorer hands.
I scowl at the sticky mess the last customer left behind after spilling his drink everywhere. I was used to customers either chattering excitedly or moping about their lives, unwillingly spilling all their secrets and a bucket load of lies in a drunken stupor.
This particular customer, however, had just gone through a bad breakup, complained about how it ‘wasn’t his fault’ (a complete bullshit lie), and then proceeded to flirt with me like I was the type to fall for drunk guys who complained about their ex-girlfriends.
At least my pockets are bursting with tips. I can go on a shopping spree tomorrow.
I smile at the thought of the designer heels I’ve been wanting to get for months.
If only I had a rich boyfriend who could buy me gifts instead…
The Black Rose, the bar I worked at, was always teeming with rich people, but I had a clear personal rule set in place: no getting attached to any customers.
I had a few flings a couple of times with some very cute customers, but those always ended as soon as I found out those little pricks were married. They tried to hide it of course, but I don’t miss anything.
They don’t call me ‘Psychic Bartender’ around here for nothing after all. I can tell you what drink someone is going to order before they even open their mouth. It’s a simple matter of observing their behavior, their conversations, and their clothing.
A dear friend, almost-sibling really, of mine taught me those tricks long ago.
I smile at the thought of Dean, who was off studying in Yale medical school, while I was stuck here in this tiny town of Quantico, Virginia.
“Zhang!” my manager, an older man named Tanner Briggs, shouts, “Quit daydreaming and get back to work. I’m not paying you to stand around.”
You barely pay me anything to begin with, you prickly old man.
Pulling myself out of memory lane, I turn my attention back to the wet glasses on the back counter and start wiping them with a cloth.
I’m going to get out of this town one day, just you wait—
“I’ve heard of customers having bad nights, but this is the first time I’ve seen a bartender grumbling under their breath,” a smooth male voice calls out from behind me.
I don’t recognize his voice. He’s not one of my regulars.
I turn around to see the source of the voice. It’s a young man, somewhat on the taller side, with mussed brown hair and piercing hazel eyes in sharp contrast with the lazy smirk on his face. He’s wearing a bright red shirt with a pair of dark jeans, but his straight posture and the Rolex watch on his wrist tell me this stranger is no casual passerby.
He’s cute and screams old money.
Just my type.
I mentally shake my head.
We don’t hook up with customers, remember?
I flash him my brightest smile. “Oh no, nothing going on with me tonight.” I place the glass and cleaning cloth on the counter in front of me and twirl my finger around one of the red highlights in my hair. “You on the other hand,” I say and make a point of eyeing him up and down, “look like you could use something to take your mind off things.”
His smirk grows as he takes a seat in one of the fancy red and gold metal barstools. “Oh? I’ve heard you have a reputation around here for guessing people’s drink orders.” He places his right arm on the counter, flashing his Rolex watch under the lights. “Guess mine correctly, and I’ll make it worth your while.”
Oh, I like this man. Let’s up the stakes.
I’ve never been one to back down from a challenge. “I guess correctly, and you tip me $200,” I answer smoothly as I start pulling out various ingredients from the cabinets.
He raises a perfectly shaped eyebrow. “And if you lose?”
“I never lose.”
He leans forward close enough that I can see his chiseled muscles through his shirt and the minute details of his smooth face. “Hypothetically speaking, if you are wrong…” His hazel eyes slowly move across my face before fixating on my lips. “What are you willing to lose?”
I scoff despite my heartbeat quickening at his proximity.
Does he seriously think I’m going to fall for those cheap tricks?
I keep my steady gaze trained on his eyes, which are now looking downward at my tight uniform. “I’ll give you whatever you want, except money since you clearly have enough of that.”
His smirk turns into a grin. “Deal.”
Michael’s POV
I watch the girl in front of me with amusement as she busies herself with mixing various liquids and ingredients into the glass she set on the counter.
She’s quite attractive and sassy.
Definitely my type.
I came to this bar because I heard about this female bartender who can guess what drink someone’s going to order in the blink of an eye.
They’re probably just exaggerated rumors from a whole bunch of drunk men wooing over her.
After a couple of minutes, she sets down the final bottle before pushing the glass towards me. “One Old Fashioned,” she announces with a smug expression.
How did she—
Carefully keeping any sign of surprise from my expression, I give her a matching smug look instead.
Oh, she’s not getting away with that so easily.
I curve my lips into a wicked smile. “I’m afraid you’re wrong.”
She cocks her head before raising an eyebrow at me. “I’m not wrong, you dirty liar.”
I put my hand against my heart in mock offense before gasping quietly. “Miss bartender! That’s no way to talk to a customer! Besides, I would never lie to someone as beautiful as you.”
She narrows her eyes at my comment, and I see a flick of interest appear on her face before it quickly is masked by irritation. “You owe me 200 bucks, you dirty, dirty liar.”
I suppose I could lose $200 tonight.
“And how, pray tell, can you tell that I’m lying?”
The corners of her lips quirk up into a smirk. “That’s for me to know, and you to figure out for yourself. Now, are you going to pay for your drink, rich boy?”
With a dramatic sigh, I pull out my wallet from my jeans pocket and pull out $215 — $15 for the drink and $200 for losing the bet.
I take a sip from the Old Fashioned she made from me, feeling the rich whiskey burn down my throat. It doesn’t hurt as much as my wounded pride, but I’ll get even very, very soon.
We’ll see how long you’ll be able to resist my charm, miss pretty bartender.