Love on the Lake (Lakeside #2)(15)

By noon the wallpaper is up. I’m a sticky, gross mess, but the room looks amazing, and that’s without any furniture.

I hop into the shower, wash all the glue from my skin, and scrub off any remaining paint from yesterday. I make myself another coffee—this time I try the instant stuff that Aaron must have left here. I must use way too much because it tastes awful, but it’s caffeine.

While I cringe-gag-sip my coffee, I make a list of things I’m going to need to avoid always having to use my brother’s stuff. I tap my lip and stare at my bed, which I made as soon as my feet hit the floor. There’s nothing I dislike more than getting into an unmade bed at night.

The frame is familiar, and it takes me a moment to place why. It’s the bed from the spare bedroom, the one that Van and Dillion have taken as theirs. It’s smaller than Grammy Bee’s room, but he’s yet to redecorate that one. He and Grammy Bee were close, and losing her was a lot like losing another parent for him. I wasn’t as close to her as he was, and the memories I have of her from my childhood are foggy at best. Indistinct, like an unfocused photograph.

I remember when I slept in that spare bedroom as a little girl, the sounds of wildlife and the tree branches scraping the side of the cottage always scared me. They made it impossible to sleep. Eventually I made excuses to stop coming along, saying I didn’t want to be away from Dad. It wasn’t entirely untrue. I didn’t want to leave my dad alone, but more than that, I didn’t want to spend all those hours in that room, staring up at the ceiling, unable to sleep because everything was different and somehow scary.

I shake my head, pushing away the memories, not wanting to think about things that upset me. Which is when I remember that the spare bedroom in the cottage has been completely renovated, and that Van and Dillion bought a brand-new bedroom set. And that means the contents of that bedroom were probably moved to the garage, likely with the thought that some of the furniture would get used up here.

I slip my feet back into my flip-flops and use the inside staircase to check out the contents of the garage.

“Jackpot!” I prop my fists on my hips and grin as I take in the neatly stacked and labeled bins. There are sets of dishes, old pots and pans, and a small kitchen table that’s beat up, but a fresh coat of paint and it will work perfectly in the space I have. There’s a night table and a dresser and an old mirror that would look great together.

There are all sorts of other amazing treasures that Grammy Bee never got rid of, and Van obviously saw the value in holding on to them, even if only for sentimental reasons. It’s looking more and more like I won’t have to bring nearly as much stuff back from Chicago as I thought. Some of the pieces I’ll have to refinish, but it’s a great starting point.

I bring up a few boxes of essentials and get to work washing dishes so I at least have those. I find a small coffee press and old Tupperware that probably dates back to the seventies but is still in good condition.

It’s already two in the afternoon by the time I get everything put away. I still want to head to town and stop at the law office so I can drop off a résumé there—I printed new ones with an updated address. But first I need to buy a few groceries so I have more than instant coffee and energy drinks. I love caffeine, but I need other beverage options, and I don’t want to drink Aaron’s root beer and make him like me any less than he already does.

I create a new grocery list and make sure my outfit is Pearl Lake casual before I leave. I don’t have a ton of clothes with me, but I do have a pair of worn jeans and a plain black shirt. My running shoes are metallic pink, but they’re the only ones I brought, so they’ll have to do.

I drive into town, not even caring that the dirt road is kicking up all kinds of dust and making my black car dirty. I’m in a great mood as I park in a public lot across from the Town Pub. I check my reflection, resist the urge to apply a coat of lipstick—locals don’t seem to wear it here—grab my purse, and hop out of my car. I cross the street and notice a piece of paper taped to the inside of the window that reads BARTENDER NEEDED.

I can’t tell if it’s a new or old sign because the windows need a serious wash, but it doesn’t hurt to check it out. I know how to make a mean martini, a margarita to die for, and a delicious manhattan. I’m also a self-proclaimed wine aficionado. I’m pretty much an ideal candidate for the job.

I roll my shoulders back and hold my head high as I push through the doors. The first thing I smell is beer. The second is fried food. The third is some kind of cleaner. The interior is dark and the tables are wood, the booths and seats all stained mahogany. It reminds me of an old English pub, which is fitting.

Surprisingly, a good number of tables are occupied this early on a Friday afternoon. Older couples sit in the booths, and several men of various ages occupy the stools, a few sitting next to each other, watching a game on the TV above the bar, sipping pints or bottles of beer.

A man stands behind the bar, a dish towel thrown over his shoulder, pouring pint after pint. There’s one server on the floor, loading up her tray and stopping at each table to chat and deliver drinks.

I step up to the bar and wait.

“What can I get for you?” he asks as he sets a beer in front of the man beside me. He smells like metal and cigarette smoke. Not the bartender but the man sitting at the bar.

“Is the bartending position still available?” I ask and then smile brightly.