“Night, man!” I call after him. “Thanks for keeping me company while I open.”

“Thanks for never running out of beer,” he says with smiling eyes.

Chelsea reappears behind me with her truck driver lurking in the background. “Alec, you gotta put this one on tap right away, okay? I told the brewmaster that you’d give it a try and talk it up.”

Did you, now? “I’ll swap it out tonight,” I say, even though it’s an inconvenience. “Set ’er down anywhere, Kevin.”

Chelsea smiles, dancing along to Ed Sheeran, then ducking under the bar again. “You love this song, don’t you Alec?” She’s teasing me, since she knows I don’t go in for crooners.

“I love it so hard,” I lie, just to amuse her. “This song gets three snaps in a Z shape.” I snap my fingers and swivel my hips. It’s a little thing I do sometimes, spoofing In Living Color. Chelsea is too young to get the reference, but she doesn’t care. She gives me a throaty laugh that suggests we’re going to have a good time later. “Now let me get my prep work done, so I can beg off early for you tonight.”

“Can’t wait,” she says, flipping her hair. “Sign here and I’ll get out of your way.”

I take the clipboard and sign for the delivery. “Later, hot stuff.”

“Later!” She leaves.

Down the bar, Smitty is already deep in conversation with another female customer. He’s pointing at the beer list and describing something with hand gestures designed to show off his tats.

Work hard, play hard. That’s how we roll at the Gin Mill.

A half hour later, though, I’m not dancing anymore. As the tables fill up with the happy-hour crowd, I am pouring drinks at top speed, just trying to keep up with demand.

A bartender’s job is simple enough—sell booze and keep everyone happy. A bar owner’s job, on the other hand, is a little more fraught. Lately, the partying-to-worrying ratio is a little lower than I wish. Business is good, and the bar is full of people. But my profit margin is shaky, and I don’t have enough cash to reinvest in the business.

Most nights I spend a fair amount of time watching the crowd, trying to guess what changes would make a key difference. If I take out the pool tables and put in a little stage for music, would that help or hurt? Am I charging too much for the premium beers? Or too little?

None of it will be solved tonight, though. I scan the faces in the crowd, and my gaze snags on a couple in the back corner booth. It’s two women, staring deeply into each other’s eyes. They were in here last week, too.

One of them is familiar to me, and I can’t figure out why. And a good bartender never forgets a face. So for the second week in a row, this is gonna bug me.

I mix two margaritas and pour a half a dozen beers. Between each one I glance into the corner again. The pretty, dark-haired woman is lip-locked to the shorter woman. She has a salt-and-pepper buzz cut, and I’ve never seen her before. It’s the dark-haired woman who’s familiar. I just don’t know why. But watching her make eyes at the other woman bugs me. It’s wrong, somehow.