His voice was sexy, but his tone sounded seriously annoyed.

I glanced over my shoulder at him. “No. It’s just something I like to make.”

His dark brow arched as he assessed my answer. “The city’s top mixologist spent weeks crafting this drink list.”

Top mixologist? I had flipped through the leather-bound list earlier, completely uninspired by the generic drinks. I’d assumed it was thrown together by some busboy that had Googled “how to make hipster cocktails”.

I set the gold tequila down on my station and shrugged. “I like to play by own rules.”

Brian came up behind me, nearly shoving me out of the way to reach Suit Man.

“Sir, I didn’t see you there. Can I get you anything? The usual?”

I smirked. The guy must be one hell of a tipper to elicit that sort of ass-kissing from Brian.

“No. I’d actually like her to make me a drink,” he said with a dark tone.

I was looking down, measuring out a shot of tequila, or he would have seen my eyes narrow. What is his angle?

“Lily,” Brian whispered under his breath, trying to get my attention.

I glanced over at him from beneath my lashes. His eyes widened as he inclined his head toward the man. The message was clear: make his drink. Now.

Unfortunately, I’d never been very good at taking orders.

I plastered on a fake smile and met Suit Man’s annoyed stare.

“I’ll be happy to take your order, right after I finish up with these fine folks who were here before you.” My tone was clipped and cool, but no one could accuse me of being outright rude. It was the voice adopted by anyone who’d ever had to work a shift in a service job.

Suit Man sat and watched me mix three more drinks. I was still faster than Brian, but compared to earlier, I was taking my sweet time. His dark eyes stayed pinned on me as anger palpably boiled off of him. I selected my ingredients with care and measured them out like I was creating a work of art.

I caught fragments of his shattering composure as I twisted and turned behind the bar: his clenched, clean-shaven jaw; the gap in the top of his shirt where his tensed, tan chest peeked through; his knuckles, motionless but growing whiter as he gripped the edge of the bar.

By this time, the crowd around the courtyard had diminished, which left Brian with no other orders to busy himself with.

“Sir, are you sure I can’t get you anything?” Brian asked, his voice a tad more shrill than it’d been only minutes before. “Seriously, Lily—”

Suit Man shook his head, leaned forward, and propped his elbows on the bar.

“Brian, go clean up the other end of the bar,” he ordered.

I met his stare and took off the friendly mask I usually wore for customers. Our eyes locked with unspoken fury. I’d been on my feet all night, I was exhausted, and now I had to deal with a customer from hell. He had no clue who he was dealing with.

“Make me a Collins,” he said through seductive lips. They were the sort of lips made for giving orders and delivering on promises.

He offered no please. No thank you.

I held his stare as I reached for a highball glass. I took pride in every drink I made, but I knew his drink would be irre-fuckin-proachable. I expertly poured two ounces of dry gin by sight, and then added a touch more. One teaspoon of superfine sugar and half an ounce of lemon juice went into the glass next. I stirred it all together and spritzed it with a touch of club soda. He took the glass out of my hand before I could slide it across the bar. I watched him bring it to his lips, holding back every snarky remark that came to mind.

“Too heavy on the sugar,” he declared, dropping the glass back onto the bar. “Make it again.”

He’d hardly taken a sip.

I had to bite down on my tongue until I nearly drew blood. The customer is always right. Even if the customer is full of shit, he’s always right.

“Are you for real?” a nearby customer asked in my defense before turning to me. “Don’t worry girl, your bartending skills are on point. Don’t listen to him.”

Mr. Suit didn’t acknowledge her and I knew I had no choice. I had to make it again.

I measured out the ingredients into a new glass as my hand shook with anger. I held out the drink again, ignoring the touch of his fingers as he pulled it from my grasp. His brows furrowed into a line as he took a belt of the new drink. I watched him and waited for him to concede and thank me for the second drink.

He shook his head. “Not enough lemon.”

I could count on one hand the number of times I’d had a customer ask me to remake a drink. He didn’t know what he was talking about. I reached across the bar and took the glass out of his hand. His jaw dropped.

“Lily! Jesus,” Brian said, trying to pull the drink out of my hand. I held on to the glass and watched the man’s nostrils flare as I took a sip of my own creation. It was good. Chilled and flavorful.

“You are impossible,” I hissed. “Sorry, but we don’t need your money this badly.”

He smirked and shook his head, reaching into his back pocket. He unfolded his leather wallet and pulled out two one-hundred-dollar-bills. “Wrong. We always want the customer’s money.” He tossed the bills across the bar and scooted his bar stool back. “You’re fired. Consider that your severance.”

My heart leapt to my throat.

Wait.

What?

“Dude, you’re oblivious,” Brian moaned. “Do you know who that was?”

I could barely hear Brian through the ether; I was too focused on the man slipping back through the crowd.

He was just another customer…right?

“That was Dean Harper.” He laughed, answering his own question. “It was nice knowin’ you.”

Chapter Five

Dean

Zoe: You didn’t fire the new girl did you? Tell me you aren’t that stupid.

I ignored Zoe’s text and laced up my beaten-up running shoes. My phone buzzed again and I reluctantly read the text.

Zoe: The bar brought in four times the amount it usually does last night. JUST FYI.

Zoe had been with my team for the last five years. We worked well together because she was a good manager and one hundred percent uninterested in me—or any other man for that matter. I brought her in as a temporary manager at the start of every restaurant. She helped me hire and train the new staff for the first few weeks, and she was damn good at her job. Her knack for annoying banter was not why I kept her around.

Zoe: Why’d you do it?

I would have ignored her question, but something told me she wouldn’t stop until I appeased her.

Dean: She’s not Provisions material.

My phone buzzed instantly.

Zoe: Yeah, you’re right. Making money is overrated.

I plugged my headphones in and pulled up my workout playlist. Zoe could text her fingers raw, but I had to start my run. My calves were tight from my last workout, but the tension would ease up by the time I reached the park. I locked up my apartment and slipped my spare key into the laces of my left shoe. Then, I took off.

I had to do some form of exercise every day, and I wasn’t particularly committed to one specific thing. Running, biking, rowing, anything that got my limbs moving made it easier to tame the fire burning inside me. I’d pound the pavement and feel the pieces of my life fall into place.

I’d thought I’d be happy after I made my first million, my tenth, my twentieth. I’d thought by the time I had a solid grip on New York’s restaurant scene, I’d be satisfied. I was wrong. The fire never died and I always wanted more.

Any freshman in college with a handful of psychology credits could connect the dots that I was using work to fill an emotional void in my life, but objectively speaking, they had to be wrong. I didn’t have voids. I’d had more than my fair share of women and I’d even truly loved one or two of them along the way. I yearned for nothing, lacked for nothing, and yet still, I pushed myself harder.