Any Time, Any Place (Billionaire Builders #2)(4)
Not anymore.
Raven showered and changed into her street clothes. The humidity hit her as she opened the door, wrapping its cloak around her head and trying to smother her. She’d heard people in Arizona called the heat dry, but here in Connecticut, it was a wretched, clogged invasion that drove people indoors to their beloved air conditioners. And it was only June.
Her designer sneakers were black and silver with a high wedge, but they were comfortable enough to accommodate her long legs and rapid pace without a hitch. She jumped into her Jeep and drove the short distance to the demanding lover in her life that greedily took all her time and energy.
My Place.
Her soul practically sighed with contentment when she pulled into the graveled lot. The restaurant was simple on the outside. Dark wood and a big front porch. The lighted sign was hitched a bit askew and slanted toward the right. Once she unlocked the main doors with the dead bolt, another set of old saloon-style doors came into view, giving the place a fun feel. She left the main doors ajar when the bar was open, but for now, she locked them again behind her and stepped into her pub.
An automatic smile curved her lips. The smells of lemony polish, lingering garlic and grease, and a hint of old wood and must rose to her nostrils in a symphony. Her gaze took in the high raftered ceilings with thick beams, noting the small circle of water damage that would eventually force her to replace the roof. She’d need to invest before winter. Scarred plank floors and large booths with red vinyl seating gave off a comfortable aura. She made sure there was plenty of activity for the regular bar crowd—two large television screens, a pool table, a dartboard, and a working jukebox screamed old school. Shelves held various knickknacks like bobbleheads, sports memorabilia, and the occasional antique mirror. Signs hung on the walls, shouting familiar catchphrases such as RULE NUMBER 1: THE BARTENDER IS ALWAYS RIGHT. RULE NUMBER 2: IF THE BARTENDER IS WRONG, GO BACK TO RULE NUMBER 1. Yosemite Sam held a smoking pistol with a MOST WANTED placard over his head. A vintage Cheers sign—WHERE EVERYBODY KNOWS YOUR NAME—was one of her favorites.
But the main feature was the bar.
It was another antique, and she bet in its heyday it had been a glorious piece of art. The dull mahogany wood set off the brick wall behind, along with her fully stocked collection of liquor bottles, the taps, and her cocktail-creating section. The length and width were massive, allowing her to seat over a dozen people.
Raven loved stuff. She might not know how to restore or decorate properly, and she couldn’t care less about frilly curtains or bedding or sofa pillows, but a good, solid antique spoke to her. She enjoyed spending some free time roaming at the local vintage store, the Barn, and seeing what else she could pick up.
Pride flowed rich in her veins. When she’d decided to buy the bar, it had been almost unsalvageable from a previous fire and was dirt cheap. After years of refusing to touch her father’s life insurance money, Raven decided it was the only way to buy the pub. After restoration, she was even able to reopen the restaurant. At first, she kept the menu simple but satisfying, featuring her famous sweet potato fries. But when she snagged her real live culinary chef, they decided to step it up and give the cornerstone restaurants in town competition. The burgers were gourmet, with specialized toppings the locals flocked in for. The steaks were oversize and thick, and the few vegetarian dishes offered were creative and satisfying, not the usual rabbit food most thought of. Her staff was well trained, well treated, and always backed up. But what kept the crowds booming was the best damn cocktails imaginable. She’d finally made a name for herself, and she intended to keep growing doing what she did best.
Working her ass off.
Yeah. Things were good.
The past surged up and tried to sucker punch her, but she stepped neatly away and allowed herself to let it go. Hadn’t she learned her lesson? Steeping herself in a world that could only provide bitterness and regret wasn’t something she did anymore. As long as she moved forward, there was enough to make her happy.
She had a few more hours till opening and a lot to do. Besides a brief staff session and a meeting with Al to go over the menu, she’d been playing with a new cocktail idea that combined fresh raspberries and mint, which were in season.
Raven headed behind the bar and got to work.
chapter three
Dalton walked through the saloon doors and took in the scene.
My Place was becoming the place to hang out, which was surprising since it was located just outside of Harrington, away from the popularity of Main Street. Harrington was a well-known town that drew tourists by the busload to explore the marina and artsy shops and seafood restaurants. Nestled close to Greenwich, it was also a town that boasted pure money, and many celebrities resided behind its exclusive gates. It was an easy commute to Manhattan, and was featured in some highbrow magazines as the best hidden secret in the Northeast. Dalton had been sad when he’d seen how much the town had grown. He missed the purity of the place he’d grown up in. But the locals had claimed My Place for themselves, preferring to leave Main Street and all its pretty trappings for amazing pub food, cocktails, and a pool table.
The place was packed, and classic Michael Jackson blared from the jukebox in the corner. Four guys were playing a lively game of pool, and a baseball game flickered on the dual televisions. The Mets were on. He’d actually become a Dodgers fan during his time in California, but he wouldn’t admit it here. A group of young women took up the far right side of the bar, giggling and sipping some type of frothy pink cocktail that gave him a toothache just looking at it. The scents of sweet potato fries, grilled meat, and draft beer drifted in the air.