Page 4 of Living with Fire
For the last five years, I’ve been helping him manage the bar.
At least I thought I had been.
Turns out, I knew nothing about what it really took to make the bar run smoothly. He never taught me how to do much of the paperwork besides orders. Paying employees? Vendors? Utilities? I had to figure that out on my own after he passed.
It’s been a stressful six months, but I felt like we’d finally found our footing. Then we discovered the tax situation.
It’s beginning to look like Uncle Pete didn’t know as much as he let on either.
“Call me if you need me,” Larry offers, pushing up from his chair to walk me out.
On my way down to the parking garage, I shove my hand through my brown hair, and sigh as I glance down at the list Larry gave me. Not only is it long, but I need four years’ worth of this shit. I think that’s the most worrying part of it all. The amount of time I have to go back in history is staggering.
The headache that’s starting in the back of my skull tells me the amount of stress I’m feeling right now is in the extreme realm, considering I face stressful situations every day of the week.
Leaning back against the wall of the elevator, I pull my phone out to send a quick text to my sister. Jordan would help more if I let her, but the bar was never her thing. She waitressed when she was younger and in school, but now she’s a full-time ER nurse. I know that’s demanding on her, so I try to shoulder the load of the bar.
Me: Got a list of things to do from Larry. I’ll get to work on it tonight.
I’m headed to the bar now, but I’ve got a full day of bartending before I can start to look at the stuff for Larry. When my head bartender gets in at six, I’ll spend four or five hours dealing with the accounting before heading home for a short night of sleep. I’ve got to be at the firehouse for an early morning shift tomorrow.
I love our bar. I have a million good memories from it over the years. The thought of losing it makes my chest ache and my throat clog. It will forever be the thing that brought my uncle and me together, the thing that bonded us. He’s the reason I became a firefighter in the first place. He was an integral part of me becoming the man I am today. I owe it to the bar, to my uncle, and to myself, to make sure I get this worked out, because I can’t imagine not having this place in my life. Not when I can credit it for so much that I have now.
The elevator slows, threatening to bottom out my stomach. I glance up at the number above the door, realizing it’s not stopping because we’re in the underground parking, but because we’re picking up another occupant. The doors open just as my phone vibrates in my hand, pulling my attention to the device.
Jordan: I’m off today, but I’ve got some stuff to do. I can help after.
“Shit,” a soft, feminine voice curses, causing my eyes to shoot up.
The woman standing outside the elevator is breathtakingly gorgeous. Our eyes connect for the briefest of moments before I’m drawn to a box in her arms, which she shifts uncomfortably while her feet stay rooted in place. I’m trying to hide my appreciation for how striking she is when my eyes meet hers again, lingering for a moment.
Beautiful almond-shaped blue eyes are accentuated by high cheekbones in a heart-shaped face. Long, blonde hair falls in waves, curling over her shoulders to sit atop the swell of her breasts—the only part of them I can see thanks to the box in her hands. If I were a betting man, I’d guess they were the perfect size to fit in my palm. Not too big, not too small, just the way I like them.
The doors to the elevator start to close, and instinctively, I throw an arm out to catch them before they shut entirely.
“You getting on?” I ask, watching as her posture shifts to stand taller.
Christ. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything as beautiful as the way her cheeks turn rosy under my gaze. I hear her teeth audibly come together, steeling herself as she walks onto the elevator with her head held high, looking as though she’d rather be anywhere other than stuck in a tiny space with me.
Dropping my hand from the door, I step back, my eyes doing another sweep of her. If the box wasn’t a dead giveaway, the air surrounding this woman would tell me that her day may beat mine in the shitty department. It’s thick with the type of friction that makes you want to tuck tail and run, but it doesn’t scare me. I deal with this type of tension all the time.
“I didn’t get fired, if that’s what you’re thinking,” she snaps with irritation, nostrils flaring, before I have a chance to say anything.
My eyebrows raise, and I can’t help the upward tilt at the corner of my lips. “Not what I was thinking,” I tell her, marginally amused at her presumption. “I was—”
“Good!” she says with disdain, cutting me off. “Because I’ll have you know that I quit. I quit because men are disgusting, filthy pigs, so don’t even think about hitting on me while we’re in this elevator. I will not take kindly to it.”
I let her words hang in the air between us for a moment. It feels hazardous to my health to breathe, let alone speak at this point, but there’s a pressing question that needs to be answered.
“Is asking what floor you need considered hitting on you?” I hedge, biting back a chuckle for my own safety. “Cause that’s all I was thinking about.”
Wide, horrified eyes, that I note are more gray than blue, turn to me, and I fight to keep a full-fledged grin from forming. It’s obvious this woman has had a rough morning. Normally I’d be sympathetic towards someone walking into an elevator with a box full of their things, but right now, I’m amused.
That might have to do with the fact her face is turning multiple shades of red while she lets my words sink in. Or perhaps it’s because I’ve had my own shitty morning, and this stunning woman is providing a much needed distraction. Either way, I’m having a hard time keeping the enjoyment off my face as I gaze expectantly at the woman gawking at me.
“Oh.” Her voice is nothing more than a squeak colored with embarrassment. I have to fight harder to keep from grinning, a battle I’m losing. She glances at the buttons on the wall as she clears her throat. “Same place as you.”
“Great,” I tell her, taking one last look at her inflamed cheeks before turning to face the door of the elevator.