Page 8 of Naughty or Nice?
Sliding onto the leather-cushioned stool, I glance up and down the bar counter for the one thing missing in The Tavern—the bartender.
No one’s behind the counter.
But none of the patrons seem to notice nor care. They chat away in their private circles or sway to the Christmas classics playing over the speakers. I recognize Eartha Kitt’s sultry voice crooning “Santa Baby”.
Another couple minutes go by with no bartender in sight. My patience starts to wane as I pull out my phone to check the time and consider ordering an Uber after all.
So much for this being the bar for me…
“Kendall?”
“Nicholas?!”
My insides flip in surprise as none other than Nate’s father appears from a backroom in the bar. He’s wiping off his hands on a dishrag that he slaps over his broad shoulder. He approaches the counter from the opposite end from where I’m seated, revealing what I should’ve known from the moment I stepped into The Tavern.
He’sthe bartender.
He’s the bartender because it’s his bar.
How the hell could I forget Nate’s dad owned a bar in Morrow? One of many around the state, as he’s opened up several Taverns in North Carolina and even started his own brewing company. It’s how he’s also expanded with residential properties like the one I’m currently staying in.
All info I learned last Thanksgiving when I visited the Whittler family the first time.
But info that escaped me in the mind-muddling wake of my breakup with Nate.
He cracks a grin, stopping directly in front of me behind the bar counter. “I didn’t expect to see you here tonight.”
“Probably because I didn’t plan on it. I’m so sorry. I forgot this was your bar.”
“Why would you be sorry? It’s a free country. You and everyone else has the right to stop by for a drink.”
“Yeah but… you’re…”
He cocks a thick white brow. “I’m what? Nate’s father?”
“Well… um… yeah…”
“Does it bother you that I am? Does it make you want to leave The Tavern?”
I think on his question a second. “I’m not sure. It just seems awkward.”
“Darling, it’s only awkward if you make it awkward,” he answers, his crooked grin cause for another flip of my stomach. “How about I fix you a drink? What’s your poison of choice?”
“What do you have on tap?”
“Take your pick. We’ve got twenty-two different selections. Are you a beer drinker?”
My face falls, my tone weighted down by mourning. “Not really. Except when Nate and I went to sports games.”
“Light or dark? Ale or lager?”
“I’m not sure. Which would you recommend?”
He chuckles, but not out of condescension. The sound’s hearty and thick, almost like he’s endeared.
“Tell you what. I’ve got some Leinenkugel Bock on tap. It’s a German lager that’s a little darker but has some great flavors to it. Some sweetness with a hint of toffee and roasted nuts. Nothing too strong. A lot of my female patrons enjoy it.”
“Okay,” I say, offering him a small smile. “I’ll try it. I’m not even sure why I came out tonight. I should probably be home… at your home. I found a flight out tomorrow afternoon.”