I had a knack for mixing up new drinks because I’d also spent loads of nights at home, memorizing cocktail recipes. I’d lied my ass off to get the job here. I said I’d worked in clubs before, all the while praying my fake ID held up.

I wasn’t Amelia Clifton, marketing guru anymore. I was Mila Clarke, bartender. Thankfully, I was a quick learner, and I’d picked up working the bar fast.

A large crowd of clubgoers surged inside.

“Time to water the thirsty masses,” Venus said.

Soon, I was too busy to think of anything. I was grabbing glasses, scooping ice, pouring shots, and mixing cocktails.

“You can light me up any day, sweet thing.”

Sweet thing? Really.

Leaning over the bar, I ran the lighter across the three tall glasses, turning the red cocktails from hurricanes into flaming hurricanes.

The customer licked his lips and smiled. He was already heading well toward drunk. I’d need to keep an eye on him and cut him off soon.

“I’ll add that to your tab.” I flashed him a practiced smile.

“Thanks.” He reached for the glasses.

“And don’t use that line again.” I shook my head. “It’s a bad one.”

He wrinkled his nose and cocked his head. “I thought it was funny. The drinks are on fire. And you’re hot.” He gave a sheepish shrug of his shoulders. “I wanted to take a shot.”

“Mila?” One of the other bartenders, Staci, leaned in beside me. “I need your help with an order.”

“Sure thing.” I gave Mr. Sweet Thing a nod, and turned.

“He’s never gonna make it back to his friends without spilling those.” Staci tossed her blonde curls back.

“Nope.” I was pretty sure Mr. Sweet Thing would have cocktail all over his shirt soon. Such a shame. I noted that Staci didn’t actually have another order. “Thanks for the save.”

She rolled her eyes. “He was talking to your boobs.”

I snorted. He totally had been.

“After years of working in clubs and bars, I can pick out that type as soon as they step in here,” Staci said. “Easy life, enough cash to make him feel like a hotshot, and he thinks any woman slinging drinks would be grateful to let him get her naked.” Staci sniffed. “No, thanks.”

Staci was a veteran, so she’d know. Me, I’d only been bartending for four weeks.

Okay, three weeks, five days, and six hours, but who was counting?

Someone called Staci’s name, and she whirled away.

There was an uncharacteristic break in the customers at the bar, so I quickly grabbed a cloth and wiped surfaces down. I glanced around. The crowd was starting to build. It wouldn’t be long before the club was pumping.

This was light-years away from my busy career in PR and marketing. Emotions hit me like a kick to the gut.