The Urban Dictionary defines a "soft launch" as "a photo preview of a talking stage before it becomes an official relationship on social media, i.e., taking photos of their dinner plate and their hands, half their face or their shoes as to allude there's someone special in your life."
Chapter three.
Edward
I don't know how she got here. She doesn't really vibe with the place, dressed like this. In fact, the little blazer and pencil skirt make her look the way a toddler looks when they're trying on mommy's clothes.
It doesn't suit her at all. Does nothing for her, except making her appear younger than the twenty-three trips around the sun that she is. Playing dress-up, for sure. But she couldn't be having a job interview here, right? That would have been a first, here. Most patrons here complain about their jobs. They're not here interviewing for one.
And yes, even though I mostly get regulars, or obvious older people, I carded the little miss. I'm not looking for trouble. And I won't be responsible for irresponsible underage drinking. Not on my watch.
"So, what constitutes a real drink, barkeeper?" She looks over the bartop, eyes gliding over rinsed glasses and peanut containers, her eyes the perfect shade of cognac, aged bourbon, twinkling in the soft lighting.
"Ed," I nod.
"That's an odd drink. Never heard of it," she says. She starts chuckling as I roll my eyes at her lame humor. "Relax, Ed." Isabella cocks her head to the side, deep, rich brown tresses that seems almost black falling down the front of her blazer, grazing the silky material. "I knew it was your name. I'm not stupid."
"Could've fooled me," I retort spontaneously.
Darkness clouds those amber and chocolate eyes. But they crinkle at the corner. So I'm still not really offending her.
"You know, I'm still surprised a doorknob like you is working at such a thriving establishment, Ed." She exaggerates my name, doing the most for the one syllable.
I shake my head.
"The doorknob in question actually built this place from scratch, kid." I continue drying off the beer pints before the water settles onto the glass in disgusting droplets.
She looks genuinely surprised, her gaze wandering around the walls, the tables, the carved doorposts.
"Whoah, you own this place, don't you?"
I nod.
"I honestly love the vibes. It's so homey and cute."
"I'll make sure to add that to our Instagram bio."
She taps the screen of her phone, then puts the device down again, scowling at me. It's kinda cute, the way her nose scrunches up slightly.
"You're messing with me again, aren't you, Cabin Daddy?"
I cough, heat tickling the back of my neck.
"What?" I drop the towel, trying not to break any glasses in the process.
"Oh, loosen up… you own The Cabin, dude. The fact that you also made it makes you its daddy. Get it?"
She clears her throat, fanning herself excessively. The fire is burning, but it's not extremely hot in here. Still, Isabella's cheeks are a tad flushed.
"Hot?" I ask smugly.
"I've seen better," she shoots back with a wink.