I frowned, the list blurring in front of me as another wave of exhaustion crashed into me. It was nearly ten and I still had so much to do. I should have had a cigarette earlier, I thought, pressing my fingers into my forehead, trying to make my eyes work again.

‘Hello, Caitlin!’ Nic was snapping his fingers.

‘What?’ I glanced at him, trying to remember where I was.

He groaned, turned back to the fridge. ‘You’re such a brat. Two—’

‘Two Coke,’ I cut him off, picking up my pen. ‘One tonic. Two lemonade. Four cranberry. One pomegranate. Two elderberry.’

‘Lucky guess.’

‘Every time.’

‘Doesn’t make you any less of a brat.’ He grinned, tipping his chin towards the end of the bar. ‘Serve him, will you?’

‘’Course,’ I said, looking up.

A man I couldn’t remember seeing before was sitting at the end of the bar, a pale blue shirt rolled up to his elbows, collar undone. Medium-brown hair, not too short, not too long, framing a face punctured by medium-brown eyes and a perfectly straight, medium-sized nose. Medium build, medium height, as near as I could tell, so generic he was practically invisible, but in that Sawyer’s way—the shirt was a little too well cut, obviously dry-cleaned, fingernails a little too clean—but still I looked at him for longer than I needed to as I approached.

‘Hi,’ I said, putting a napkin down on the bar. My voice bounced around my head, too loud. ‘What can I get you?’

He looked up and his face cycled through a chart of emotions before settling on the right one. Polite surprise. Not what I was expecting. ‘Hey.’

I frowned. Close up, his eyes were darker, hazelnut.

‘Glenmorangie, the eighteen.’

‘Ice?’

‘Water. Just a dash.’ He glanced at Nic, smiled. ‘Hi.’

Nic smiled back, too knowing. ‘Tom,’ he said. ‘How’s things?’

‘Good. Busy night?’

‘Not too bad, for a Sunday. Lots of couples, though, wouldn’t you say, Caitie?’

I tried to say something but I was too tired. The man—Tom—was watching me, a question on his lips. ‘I guess.’

‘I read your chef was back.’

Nic threw me a look. ‘We’re so lucky, aren’t we?’

I barely suppressed a snort. ‘Blessed.’

Tom laughed nervously. ‘Well, as long as you don’t get so busy I can’t come in for a sneaky whisky every now and then …’

‘Never.’ Nic grinned, touching my arm and turning back to the glassware. ‘The margins on alcohol are huge.’

‘I’ve noticed,’ Tom said, looking back at me as I put a glass on the napkin.

‘You’ve been here before?’ I asked.

‘Yeah.’ He nodded. ‘I live down the road. I come in after work sometimes.’

‘Oh.’ I turned and found the whisky. ‘Sorry, I’m terrible with faces,’ I said as I poured.

He smiled. ‘It’s okay. You’re usually busy.’