“I can’t say I’m much of a sommelier”—she was impressed with herself for knowing the correct wine term—“but I’d love to learn more, and Brax seems like he knows what he’s doing. Thank you, Zeke.” One of those sentiments was genuine, anyway.

Who cares? New job, new Andy. Trucker hats and thrift stores, okay.

Brax the Waxed Stache, as she immediately dubbed him in her head, grinned at her as she flipped up the partition that divided staff from customers. His handlebars were amusing enough to keep the smile on her face even as he began his rundown on the wines she ought to be suggesting to various patrons. Evidently Chardonnay was the first suggestion to be made to women, unless they were wearing graphic tees, which entitled them to Cab Sav. Then with couples, they were to be talked into obscure German blends because they’d spend extra to have a bottle they couldn’t pronounce. Dates always spent a lot to impress each other. Men alone were to be Italian-ed.

Andy’s head was spinning at the wine details, but her heart rate kicked up a notch at the psychology. Good Lord, this job had written itself for her. Meet people and determine what they’d like? She couldn’t work out why bartending hadn’t made her list of life options previously. Who cared that she didn’t know the difference between a Merlot and a Zin? She could fake that. It was perfect.

You could call literally any wine at all “well balanced,” or mention the “nice finish.” She realized pretty quickly that telling customer their glass of white had notes of pear, or apricot, or apple would never get her called out. You just picked a fruit and watched them nod in agreement.

“Hey, baby, I’d like a glass of red, with a shot of you on the side.”

Oh, no, no. The proposition came from a guy in a plaid button-down and Brax was at the opposite end of the bar—typical.

She wasn’t about to fall for that shit on her first non-shift. She took a deep breath, trying to recall what wine Brax recommended for overly aggressive flirts. “We have a lovely Cabernet on special tonight, almost as spicy as I am.” Cabernets can be spicy, right? “You’d like a glass, but love a bottle.”

A cheeky grin and a popular blend silenced the wannabe lumberjack just as she’d hoped it would. Mayhap this job would be the thing she’d been waiting for.

Or so she thought, until he’d killed the bottle and was giving her the lusty side-eye again. What a dick. Luckily, the polite older gentleman sitting in front of her was rambling on about his favorite books, so she could pretend to be engrossed in conversation. She hadn’t heard of a single one he mentioned, but he didn’t seem to mind. Or notice.

A couple young enough to have Andy double-checking their IDs sandwiched the older guy and started hugging and talking at once. There went her protection from old lusty-eyed. Also, she noted, the regulars here were shockingly friendly, considering Zeke’s snootiness. The couple ordered a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc apiece and then requested straws. Andy hesitated, thinking it was likely a no-no of some sort, but Brax slid past her with a pair of Krazy Straws for the two.

When in Rome.

“Hey. Hey, are you related to that girl with the guitar?” Lumberjack had finally taken his eyes off her long enough to let them land on Lacy.

The desire to protect her sibling lost to bubbling pride. “My sister.” She beamed as she grabbed a bar towel and started polishing glasses to hand to Brax.

“Seriously, you guys totally look alike. Do you get that a lot?” Lumberjack swiveled back and forth on his bar stool to ogle first one, then the other.

“Uh, yeah. We’re sisters.” Idiot.

“Do you guys ever, like, I mean, two sisters would be so hot—” The stool wobbled precariously.

“Let me stop you there with an emphatic no.” Yeah, she should have kept her mouth shut about their relationship. The idea that this guy was thinking disgusting thoughts about her baby sister … and her … Uh, gross.

She wasn’t sure she was allowed to deny service to anyone, but she decided she was done with Lumberjack. “Hey, if you need anything else, Brax here can take care of you.” She could have sworn he mumbled something rude, but decided it wasn’t worth it.

Onstage, Lacy was tuning her guitar as Lua Palmer set up a mike stand. Lua wasn’t a good friend or anything, but she and Lacy performed together fairly regularly. Andy poured what seemed like a decent white into two glasses and brought them to the little wooden stage. There wasn’t time for more than a quick hello and a break a leg—the place was filling up fast.

Back at the bar, Brax had her setting out little bowls of roasted garbanzo beans and olives. She was just thinking how much more swank that was than peanuts when a hand gripped her wrist. Shit, who gave the lumberjack another bottle of wine? Yanking her arm away, she glared at the guy, who just grinned back. She pushed down the anger that was starting to build. Not the time to throw another sexual harassment fit.

“Hey, Brax, this dude in the plaid shirt is getting a little inappropriate.”

“You’ll have to narrow it down a little more than that. Every second dude here is in plaid. Including me.” He followed her gaze to the lumberjack. “Oh, no, Steve? I love that guy! He’s hilarious. Don’t worry about him.”

So much for professional courtesy.

A glimpse of someone familiar and out of place shot past her peripheral vision but a customer cut her off as she strained to see who it might have been. The customer was a guy about her age, wearing all gray and sporting disheveled blond hair. She thought he could be cute if he didn’t look so downtrodden. He ordered a bottle of Riesling—a wine Andy had never heard of—and began to eavesdrop on the book fan’s monologue to the young couple.

As Lacy began to strum onstage, Andy got caught up in the rhythm of the bartending dance. She took orders from customers and servers, suggesting wines by how the sounds of their names matched the personalities of the patrons. She must have guessed well, since she collected a decent amount of tips. Pausing to blow the hair off her hot forehead, she listened with half an ear to the morose guy—whom she’d decided to refer to as Eeyore—complaining about the book fan under his breath. Apparently no one was reading classic literature anymore. Salinger would be rolling in his grave.

“Because that shit sucks. Just watch the fucking movie, dude.” Steve the Lumberjack was suddenly in front of her, lips stained purple and eyes drooping.

“You are what is wrong with this country.” Eeyore’s green eyes suddenly blazed.

Steve sat up straighter. “And you’re what is wrong with this bar.”

“Illiterate lowlife.” It was the most spark Eeyore had shown since he’d sat down.

“Old man.”

Andy started to get a little worried a fight was coming. So was Brax, it seemed, because he was already frowning as he headed down the bar.

“Who served this guy?” He gestured to Eeyore.

“I did.” Andy bit her lip at Brax’s disapproving scowl. “Is that—was I not supposed to? He had ID.”

“Pierce is a recovering alcoholic.”

The guy in gray was already standing up. “I’m leaving anyway. I have to feed my pet rabbit.” It was impressive how much dignity he injected into that statement, considering that he was no longer wearing pants.

What the hell is wrong with this bar?

“You’re welcome for getting rid of that loser. So you wanna go make out in the men’s room?” Steve leaned across the bar. Andy turned to Brax, but he was already gone.

“Fuck you, no. And I happen to like the classics.” She’d actually hated Catcher in the Rye, but no way was this dude getting the satisfaction.

God, did she really want this job? She was fine suggesting drinks and clearing tables but dealing with half-naked alcoholics and crude lumberjacks wasn’t worth the handful of tips in her apron pocket. Blake Donovan’s find-a-bride service sounded a little less dreadful than it had an hour ago. At least she’d be dealing with women. Online, if she liked. And she could wear her slippers all day and no one would notice.