I'm a scatterbrain. Forgot to write the review replies from the previous chapter—my apologies!
CheetosPotato: That's a high compliment! Thank you! I thought that the slow build to romance was always very classy, so I'm glad you like it!
StrawberryGrass: I was grinning so much, too! For a chapter with little to no dialogue, it was surprisingly fun (and challenging) to write! It's good to know it wasn't too cheesy or anything.
GIRLS ONLY
"Where's my Blue Punch?"
"And my Stone Oil!" Vesta bangs her fist on the counter. "I work from sunup to sundown, and the very least I deserve is my booze!"
"Yes, ma'am. Coming right up." Griffin says, a pitcher in one hand and a cocktail shaker in the other. He feels more like a factory worker than a bartender as he preps a line of drinks in front of him. A dozen empty glasses still wait to be filled.
His vision swims with the faces of regular and recent patrons, and some Griffin had never caught inside the bar before. Like the girl at Vesta's elbow—her "niece" he reckons—who always waves to him on his way to the city. She is trying to pacify the older farmer. Surprisingly she succeeds in lowering Vesta's shouts to grumbles; Griffin's fondness of her only increases.
He can't remember the last time the bar had a crowd as large as the one tonight. For what reason he doesn't know, but he catches snippets about an upcoming festival. All of the barstools are taken. Many folks resort to lounge in corners or even hang around outside to chat while they wait to be served. No doubt some brazen soul would have hopped onto the counter if any room had been left from Griffin's mixing equipment.
The hubbub of voices is so deafening that Griffin can barely keep the drinks straight. Did the squeeze of strawberry go into the Cherry Pink or the Moomoo Milk? And where is Muffy? She said she would be dressed and ready in five minutes. That was ten minutes ago.
"Bottoms up." Griffin slides the completed drink across the bar to the recipient hand. He swings up the counter door. "Excuse me, folks, but I need to fetch my extra pair of hands."
"Hey, what about my drink?" Rock demands.
Griffin goes to the back door without a word. The door shuts, muffling the din, and Griffin finally has a chance to take a deep breath. With his thoughts recollected, he strides to the attic ladder and bends his head back; the trapdoor is closed. Through the floor he can hear the blow of a hairdryer.
"Almost done in there? We've got a full house tonight."
The hairdryer drowns out Muffy's reply, and Griffin steps on the first rung to try and make it out.
"Come again?"
"Come in!" he catches over the dryer. Obeying, Griffin climbs up the ladder and pushes open the door.
His heart stops.
Waves of gold hair. Startled emerald eyes. A red dress draping from the swell of porcelain hips.
Two shrieks. One high-pitched and the other higher. His heart restarts, hammering against his chest faster than Wally could sprint. With the rush, adrenaline kicks in, and Griffin ducks just in time as a hairdryer is launched at his head. It clanks to the floor, still howling, as he claps his hands over his eyes. The movement makes him lose his balance, almost teetering off the rung.
"I said 'don't come in'!"
"S-s-sorry!" He hasn't stuttered like that since he first learned to hold a guitar. "I d-d-didn't—I h-h-had n-no int-t-tention—"
"Get out!"
Griffin half-stumbles/half-falls down the ladder. The trapdoor slams above him; he flinches. Then gawks at it.
One second. Two.
Three, and the improvised projectile stops its huffing.
His mouth is dry when he finally remembers to snap his jaw shut. It takes another second before the racket in the bar reminds him of why he came there in the first place. He attempts a deep breath. It lodges in his throat until he coughs. With a shake of his head, Griffin swerves on his cowboy heel and mechanically marches back into the bar.
"So glad you could join—dude, what happened to your face?" blurts out Rock.
Griffin darkens an even deeper shade of red, redder than Muffy's dress, as he stiffly bends to retrieve another glass. Without a word he pours the strongest spirit for himself first and Rock second, who still looks puzzled but takes it nonetheless. The other patrons stare at him before turning their blank eyes at each other. It is a rare occasion when something ruffles their bartender's feathers.
Out of the entire crowd only Gustafa has the presence of mind to chuckle. His shades twinkle a little too knowingly for Griffin's liking. Griffin takes a swig of his drink. No sooner does his face cool when it burns again the second Muffy arrives, flustered and just as flushed. Neither makes eye contact, and both hope their flushed faces don't give them away.
Too late.
With a smirk Gustafa refills Griffin's glass.
l*l*l*l
That night Griffin finds a sign nailed to the trapdoor. It reads in unmistakable print:
GIRLS ONLY.