But, my God, she is beautiful. If she did work a pole, the place had to be top-notch. Even with her long, kinky hair pulled back into a ponytail and no makeup on, she was way sexier than any of the glitzy, fake women filling the room with their expensive perfume and shrieky laughter.

He stood up, swaying. “I’m gonna go say hi. Hold my beer.”

“You don’t have a beer.”

Angel worked hard at keeping a pleasant expression on her face while filling drink orders. Even when she had to deliver the drinks out to the floor herself because the servers were busy flirting with married men, she remained pleasant. Even when each drink came with special instructions—“Oh, shaken, not stirred, and shaken at least sixty-five times, thanks”—she kept a smile on her face.

The boss sidled up to her behind the bar with a smirk. He was no longer naked, now wearing a tight white T-shirt under his red velvet jacket, making his spray tan even darker. And oranger.

She wanted to hose him down with club soda, but she filled the glasses instead, proud of her restraint. “You are a disgusting human being.”

He laughed, white teeth blinding her, and put an arm around her shoulders. “You need to loosen up.”

“Get the fuck away from me, Frank, or you’re going to lose a hand.”

“Spunky, spunky.” He moved back, shrugged. “Your loss. Listen, I’m gonna have you come in early the next coupla nights, create more specialty craft cocktails for the drink menu and practice some new techniques. No more bruising the ice. Stir, don’t shake. And I’ve come up with a signature drink, the Bronx Boulevardier. You’re going to premix and age it in these charred oak barrels.” He caressed a couple of small casks on the back bar, which were taking up the prep space.

Oh, good. So we can be like every other lounge in town, serving Manhattans out of cute little barrels. “You know I can’t be here early. I have my finals coming up, plus I’ve got Jose.”

“You’re a mixologist at the Peacock. There are plenty of girls who’d give their left tit for your job.”

“Uh-huh.” No way was he going to fire his only POC. She’d sue him for racism—and sexual harassment—and he knew it. “Well, we’ll have to talk about this later. I’ve got to get these drinks out.” It was enough that she had to keep her mouth shut around Dr. Collins; she wasn’t about to let a hipster-bar owner treat her like crap. And “mixologist”? Please. These girls aren’t career bartenders. No one at the Peacock was studying the craft or science of mixing drinks; they might throw around buzzwords like muddle or artisanal bitters and put on a good show with the copper shakers, but they were here to snag a drunk, rich boyfriend.