Internet fame brought out a few new faces Friday night. A few old friends of Sloane’s, who surrounded her while she was there, and two former regulars who admitted they’d seen her drink post. Santana might not have been new, but her excitement was. She buzzed around him before and after Sloane left like a very determined bee. It was only after the ten thousandth question that Brady caved.

He took her to the office and told her about the deal. To his abundant surprise, that had made her go quiet. Even when it was time to talk shop about the party and the parade during a particularly long lull in patrons, she was more thoughtful than vocal.

Finally, Brady couldn’t take it anymore. He had to say something.

“You once talked about the possibility of a reboot of Veronica Mars, never mind the actual reboot, for a solid shift. From open to close, that’s all us poor bartenders heard. Veronica and Logan and dad/daughter crime-solving. And then some guy named Schmidt from New Girl? I don’t know. I don’t remember the specifics because you just kept talking. So you being quiet now? I’m actually worried.”

Santana tilted her head to the side like she was trying to come up with a calculated response. The movement made her curls shift right before her eyebrows pulled in and she finally gave him something.

“It’s just that, well, you’re doing things the hard way. The two of you, I mean.” She lowered her voice after giving a quick look around to make sure no one could hear. “I get the deal is to cover her secret while helping the bar, but you two are just kind of going all out. You could easily drum up more business and convince her new followers you two are an item just by posting a picture or two and then lying low.”

Brady was ready to defend himself but paused. She had a point there.

“But they agreed to do all the festival crap when they went to eat at the Robertson estate,” Dixon slid in. “It’ll look bad if they back out now.”

“True, but why go to the lunch in the first place? Seems like that could have been avoided.”

At that, Dixon shrugged. He gave Brady a smug look.

“Carol is harder to dodge than you think,” Brady said on the tail of a sigh. “After running into her at the café, everything just kind of spiraled. One minute, I was about to enjoy my coffee, and then there I was, bitching about the cheap painter’s tape Roger Norman bought.”

Santana gave him another odd look, like she was trying to puzzle something out.

“What?” he prodded. “Out with it.”