It soon became clear that she wouldn’t be getting a good tip no matter how hard she flirted with the men at the back table. Miguel’s anger toward her was manifesting itself behind the bar. He had the power to ignore her drink orders, and he was exercising it. She waited patiently as he mixed a negroni for one of his customers seated at the wood.

“When you’re done there,” she said sweetly, masking her irritation, “I’m still waiting for four pints of IPA and a lager.”

“I’ll get to them when I can,” Miguel said, painstakingly pouring bright red Campari into a shot glass.

She leaned in, her voice low, conciliatory. “I’m sorry if I hurt you. I was too harsh, and I feel badly.”

“Who says I’m hurt?”

“If you’re not, can I please get my drinks? I can’t afford to piss off my tables tonight.”

“I’m busy, Nat,” he said, adding a shot of vermouth slowly, gingerly, as if he were mixing explosives. “Not everything’s about you.”

But this was about her. She’d punched in her drink orders way ahead of Tim, the other server, who had already delivered his beverages to his satisfied customers. Miguel’s patrons seated at the bar all had drinks except for the woman waiting for the world’s slowest negroni. Nat’s table of club owners would be getting antsy, annoyed, her tips diminishing by the second. There was nothing she could do but wait, as Miguel languidly stirred the orangey-red cocktail.

Finally, he slid the drink to his patient customer, leaving him no option but to fill Nat’s orders.

“Keg’s empty.” His smile was mocking as he turned and strolled toward the basement cellar.

Her cheeks burned with anger and frustration. Miguel knew her financial situation, and he was hitting her where it hurt. He was not unlike Cole, after all. Miguel was only sweet and caring when she did exactly what he wanted. When his ego was bruised, he was spiteful and malicious. Well, he didn’t know who he was fucking with.

Donnelly’s had a strict policy banning servers from behind the bar. The bartender was responsible for the till, would dole out change to the waitstaff, who were not allowed in that sacred space. But with Miguel in the basement, Nat would be able to slip through the swinging half door, open the cash register, and take out a hundred bucks. She’d tuck it into her pocket and be back on the other side of the bar before her former lover returned. Miguel’s cash would be out at the end of the night, but he wouldn’t get fired. Not for a one-off. He’d get a warning, probation at the most. And it wouldn’t be stealing, she rationalized. She was simply replacing the tips lost to Miguel’s sabotage.

Adrenaline and anger made her heart race as she moved toward the cash register. With her hand resting on the low gate, she scanned the area for Tim the server, for Wayne the manager, for any suspicious patrons. No one was paying her any attention. She moved forward, casually opened the till, and prepared to liberate the money that was rightfully hers.