A Little Too Late (Madigan Mountain #1)(18)

“We’re out of that, sorry,” the bartender says curtly.

“Oh.” I squint down at the menu again. “Okay, sure. Could I have a Lillet and Tonic?”

“Sorry, we’re out of that, too.”

I look up at her. She’s about thirty, brown hair, pretty face. Her nametag says Halley. And there’s menace in her eyes. Interesting. “How about this—what can I have?”

“A warm Bud Light or a Shirley Temple.”

I bark out a laugh. Then I glance down at a trio of open wine bottles, each one vacuum-stoppered for freshness. I point at one of them. “A glass of the pinot noir, please. And if you try to tell me it’s sold out, I’m calling bullshit.”

Wearing an unhappy expression, she pulls down a shining wine goblet and pours me a skimpy portion. “That will be twenty-five dollars, please.”

“For a…” I think better of arguing. “Fine. Here.” I pull thirty dollars out of my wallet and drop it onto the bar. “Keep the change.”

If this woman tends bar all the time, I can explain at least a million dollars’ worth of the hotel’s heady valuation.

A moment later I forget all about the crazy bartender, because Ava approaches the bar, and I practically swallow my tongue. “Good evening,” I stammer.

“Evening,” she says stiffly, slipping onto a barstool.

“You look beautiful,” I say, because I can’t stop staring. She’s wearing a dark blue wrap dress made of touchable velvet. The design is modest, but somehow guarantees that I’ll spend the whole evening drawn to the V of exposed skin at the neck. She’s paired the dress with heels that would look appropriate in an office setting, but also make her legs look a mile long.

And she’s done something tricky to her eyes, with dark lashes and sultry lids.

Fuck me. It’s going to be a long night.

“Thank you,” she says stiffly. Then her eyes travel watchfully to the door. “The Sharpes haven’t arrived, have they?”

“Not that I noticed,” I tell her. But it turns out she wasn’t even asking me. The bitchy bartender shakes her head and puts a cocktail napkin down in front of Ava. “Whatcha drinking, babe? And don’t worry, I poisoned Reed’s drink.”

I actually choke on my sip of wine, and the woman tips her head back and laughs.

“Halley!” Ava yelps. “That is not funny. Don’t make that joke when the Sharpes arrive.”

She’s still laughing, while I’m trying not to cough up a lung.

“Don’t worry,” she says. “I won’t scare off your golden goose. Nobody wants to see you running this place more than me.”

Interesting. “Is that the deal?” I ask Ava when I can breathe normally. “If Dad leaves, you’re getting promoted?”

“Yes,” she says, lifting her blue eyes to mine. “But only because he wants to retire. This is his choice.”

“Oh. I have no doubt.” My father is almost unrecognizable to me. I’d been texting my brothers about it earlier, trying to explain how jolly he’s become. Like aliens got him and put a happy person in his body.

Even Crew replied with a Wow.

But that doesn’t mean the Sharpes are trustworthy. “Did you get that promotion in writing?” I ask Ava. “Because I didn’t see anything in the deal memo or the contract about who will manage the new entity.”

She gives her head a reluctant shake. “No, I don’t have it in writing. But the Sharpes offered me the job. They said I was the natural choice.”

“I’m sure you are. Just get it in writing,” I say quietly. “Ask for a two-year contract. That’s long enough to make it expensive for him to replace you, but short enough that he shouldn’t balk.”

Ava doesn’t thank me for this advice. She gives me a furious glance instead. And then her gaze travels to where the bellhop is helping someone through the front doors.

It’s not the Sharpes, though. It’s Sheila. “Hey, lady!” I wave to my assistant.

She spots me, hands off her suitcase to the bellhop, and then comes bouncing across the lobby.

“Wow, she’s way too young for you,” the bartender carps.

“Halley,” Ava groans. “Nobody asked you to wade in.”

“It’s what I do,” she says.

My fresh-faced assistant leaps onto a barstool beside me. “Listen, boss man. Let’s talk about my next raise.”

I laugh. “Sorry?”

“You should be. Your dumb spreadsheet is waiting in your inbox. I had to work on it while wedged into a middle seat between two man-spreaders. So I want you to upgrade me to business class on the way home. And I want a cocktail.”

“How about a ginger martini?” the bartender offers, reaching for a shaker. “You look like you deserve one.”

“Hey!” I complain. “You said you were out of those.”

She gives me an evil grin. “They’re only for people I like. Ava? Martini?”

“Sure,” my ex-girlfriend says. “Thanks.”

“I’m still mad at you,” Sheila continues.

“Take a number,” I mutter. “What did I do now?”

She pins me with a glare. “I had to text Harper on your behalf.”