the customers wouldn’t give her a second glance. Hell, he even forgot what a knockout she was unless he was looking directly at her face.
On the other side of the room, Sylvia cast a few exasperated looks Deirdre’s way, but given the amount of complaining she’d done about being the only full-time barmaid in the place, she didn’t have any room to gripe. She wanted help, and now she’d gotten it, tentative and fumbling though it was at the moment. Be careful what you wish for, Sylvia.
Of course, that could also be good advice for him. He’d wanted a good-looking barmaid, and he’d gotten Audrey Hepburn, circa 1958. Not exactly what he’d been expecting. But the real question was, could Audrey Hepburn sell Shiner Bock?
He watched Deirdre slide nervously between the tables, apparently trying not to get trapped by groping hands. Of course, if anybody tried any serious groping, Chico would be on them in a split second. Still, he was amazed that someone so heartstoppingly beautiful was so unsure of herself. As if she had no idea what she looked like.
He blew out a quick sigh. At least a few more locals might come to the bar after the town heard his new waitress was related, although distantly, to the Toleffsons. And Deirdre didn’t give any indication of being a pain in the ass. He’d known his share of knockouts, and they’d all been trouble on a stick. Deirdre Brandenburg didn’t strike him as any kind of trouble at all. Except for the trouble she might cause if she ever showed up wearing something besides L.L. Bean.
“Two margaritas,” Sylvia snapped.
He’d been so busy watching Deirdre he hadn’t even noticed her walk up. Oops . He turned back to grab the tequila.
“Where’d you find her?” Sylvia’s voice sounded particularly edgy tonight.
“She walked in today. Needed a job.”
“She doesn’t know what she’s doing.”
“She will.” He placed the drinks on her tray.
“She doesn’t belong here.” Sylvia sounded almost envious, like she wished she didn’t belong in the Faro either, all evidence to the contrary.
Tom sighed. “Sure she does. Just roll with it, Sylvia. She’ll work out.” He watched Sylvia flounce back across the room and profoundly hoped he was right.
Deirdre was at her shop by nine the next morning. Her shop. She paused to let the idiot grin fade away. She’d managed to get Tom Ames to give her the key the night before so that she could at least see what needed to be done. Now she stood in the middle of the room, fighting a mixture of elation and dismay.
The place was dirty. Really dirty. Dirtier than any place where she’d ever spent time before. The concrete floor was streaked with dust and some stains that looked like grease. The walls needed to be washed down and then repainted. The finish on the shelves was cracked and peeling. She walked slowly toward the back. The counter at the end of the room was at least in decent shape, although the surface needed a good cleaning.
She measured the space between the back wall and the counter carefully. The coffee maker could go here, although the roaster would need to go in the back storage room, along with the sacks of beans. Since the sink was on the other side of the wall, the plumbing connection should be easy. The cooler would go on the other side of the door, so that customers could see what they had for drinks besides coffee. Right now, she figured mineral water and maybe some artisan sodas. And iced tea for the traditionalists.
That was assuming, of course, that she could clean off at least a few layers of grime. Right now the health department would probably shut her down in about five seconds if she tried to serve anything edible. She turned back to the sack of cleaning supplies she’d picked up at the grocery store on her way there, hoping she’d gotten enough, at least to start.
An hour later, she’d managed to wash most of the surface dirt off the floor, although the stains looked like they’d need
On the other side of the room, Sylvia cast a few exasperated looks Deirdre’s way, but given the amount of complaining she’d done about being the only full-time barmaid in the place, she didn’t have any room to gripe. She wanted help, and now she’d gotten it, tentative and fumbling though it was at the moment. Be careful what you wish for, Sylvia.
Of course, that could also be good advice for him. He’d wanted a good-looking barmaid, and he’d gotten Audrey Hepburn, circa 1958. Not exactly what he’d been expecting. But the real question was, could Audrey Hepburn sell Shiner Bock?
He watched Deirdre slide nervously between the tables, apparently trying not to get trapped by groping hands. Of course, if anybody tried any serious groping, Chico would be on them in a split second. Still, he was amazed that someone so heartstoppingly beautiful was so unsure of herself. As if she had no idea what she looked like.
He blew out a quick sigh. At least a few more locals might come to the bar after the town heard his new waitress was related, although distantly, to the Toleffsons. And Deirdre didn’t give any indication of being a pain in the ass. He’d known his share of knockouts, and they’d all been trouble on a stick. Deirdre Brandenburg didn’t strike him as any kind of trouble at all. Except for the trouble she might cause if she ever showed up wearing something besides L.L. Bean.
“Two margaritas,” Sylvia snapped.
He’d been so busy watching Deirdre he hadn’t even noticed her walk up. Oops . He turned back to grab the tequila.
“Where’d you find her?” Sylvia’s voice sounded particularly edgy tonight.
“She walked in today. Needed a job.”
“She doesn’t know what she’s doing.”
“She will.” He placed the drinks on her tray.
“She doesn’t belong here.” Sylvia sounded almost envious, like she wished she didn’t belong in the Faro either, all evidence to the contrary.
Tom sighed. “Sure she does. Just roll with it, Sylvia. She’ll work out.” He watched Sylvia flounce back across the room and profoundly hoped he was right.
Deirdre was at her shop by nine the next morning. Her shop. She paused to let the idiot grin fade away. She’d managed to get Tom Ames to give her the key the night before so that she could at least see what needed to be done. Now she stood in the middle of the room, fighting a mixture of elation and dismay.
The place was dirty. Really dirty. Dirtier than any place where she’d ever spent time before. The concrete floor was streaked with dust and some stains that looked like grease. The walls needed to be washed down and then repainted. The finish on the shelves was cracked and peeling. She walked slowly toward the back. The counter at the end of the room was at least in decent shape, although the surface needed a good cleaning.
She measured the space between the back wall and the counter carefully. The coffee maker could go here, although the roaster would need to go in the back storage room, along with the sacks of beans. Since the sink was on the other side of the wall, the plumbing connection should be easy. The cooler would go on the other side of the door, so that customers could see what they had for drinks besides coffee. Right now, she figured mineral water and maybe some artisan sodas. And iced tea for the traditionalists.
That was assuming, of course, that she could clean off at least a few layers of grime. Right now the health department would probably shut her down in about five seconds if she tried to serve anything edible. She turned back to the sack of cleaning supplies she’d picked up at the grocery store on her way there, hoping she’d gotten enough, at least to start.
An hour later, she’d managed to wash most of the surface dirt off the floor, although the stains looked like they’d need
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