Margot watches me with amusement as the bartender pours. "Rough day?"
"Rough week," I correct, accepting my glass and taking a grateful sip. The bourbon burns warm and smooth down my throat. "I mean everything is going well, but we’re two days out from opening night and I am starting to have stress dreams about salmon tartare."
"What happens in the salmon tartare dreams?" Margot asks.
"Last night the roe started multiplying exponentially and took over the entire kitchen. The night before that, the salmon grew legs and walked out the back door." I shake my head. "My subconscious is not subtle."
She laughs at that, the sound carrying over the low hum of conversation around us. "Those are oddly specific. Have you considered therapy?"
"I have considered wine, mostly.” I raise my glass. “Or bourbon, apparently."
"How is it going with Alex?" she asks, swirling her wine thoughtfully. "I know you were dreading having him around at first. Has he been tolerable, or should I start looking for places to hide the body?"
I snort into my bourbon. "He’s been fine. Surprisingly fine, actually." I pause, considering how much to admit. "He is actually quite good at what he does. Which is inconvenient, because I would prefer to maintain my moral high ground about the whole situation."
"The moral high ground of what, exactly?"
"Of being furious that my father sent someone to babysit me like I am twelve years old. Ideally the person he sent would be an asshole I could hate." I take another sip. "But it’s hard to stay furious when the person in question keeps being competent and helpful. He’s been showing me the messages to my father, so it’s like he’s more on my side."
Margot tilts her head, studying me with that calm, assessing look she does so well. "So he isgrowingon you."
"I didnotsay that."
"You didn’t have to." She glances past my shoulder briefly, then back at me with a small smile. "You know I met him last summer, right? He was here for that chef collaboration event we hosted."
"I did not know that, no." I turn my glass slowly on the bar top, watching the amber liquid catch the light. "What was he like?"
"Lovely, actually. Very warm with everyone, respectful to the staff. He stayed late every night helping clean up even though he absolutely did not have to. Also, he is really nice to the estate dog who hangs around the gardens. I feel like that says a lot about a person's character, how they treat animals."
"That's a good metric," I admit.
Margot grins. "See I think Alexisgrowing on you, whether you want to admit it or not."
"He isbearable," I say firmly. "That is as far as I am willing to go."
She laughs and takes another sip of her wine, then her gaze drifts past my shoulder toward the other end of the bar. "Well, don’t look now, but your bearable new colleague is over there."
I follow her gaze and spot Alex at the far end of the bar, leaning against the counter with a rocks glass in his hand, chatting with the bartender. He has not noticed us yet, or if he has, he is pretending not to.
"You should invite him over," Margot says.
"Why would I do that?"
"Because you have been working together all week and clearly do not hate him as much as you thought you would." She raises an eyebrow. "Or because you want to, and you are looking for permission."
"I do not need permission to—" I stop, pressing my lips together. "You’re terrible."
"I know." She takes a sip of her wine, looking entirely too pleased with herself.
And then, because apparently Margot's terrible influence is contagious, I hear myself call out, "Alex!" and my hand is already up in the air waving before my brain has fully caught up to what my mouth is doing.
Alex turns immediately, his eyes finding mine across the bar, and he breaks into a wide smile that sends an unwelcome flutter through my chest.When did I become such a lightweight?This is definitely the bourbon's fault.
I motion for him to join us, and he nods, draining the last of whatever he was drinking and saying something to the bartender before pushing off from his spot at the bar.
"See?" Margot says, looking entirely too smug. "That wasn’t so hard."
"It means nothing," I mutter.