Wild Addiction (Wild #2)(34)
Author: Emma Hart

“Um, say what?” Day calls after her as she darts out of the room.

Tessa reappears with our wine, which has been topped up, and has the biggest grin on her face. “When we were eight, he pulled the head off my Barbie and threw it down the toilet. In retaliation, I hid all his BB gun bullets in the pantry. This was around the time Mum decided to put a lock on the pantry door because he kept creeping in in the middle of the night.”

“I see where this is going.” Amusement hints at my lips.

“He stole the hammer from the shed and knocked the door down to get to them. I ended up with several bruises from all the times he shot me after that, but it wasn’t as bad as the grounding he got for breaking the door. Believe me. That boy had—and still has—a temper. As long as you can tame it, you’re fine.”

Day smiles at me. “Oh, she can tame it. You should have seen him when you called him to tell him about that dickhead.”

“I bet he went all caveman psychotic, didn’t he?” She winks. “Well, my ex-husband is still alive, so I’ll believe you can calm him down. Although, if you don’t mind, I don’t want the details.”

I smile now. “I won’t make you hear them.”

“Good. I’m gonna call him. I’ll be a minute.” She closes the door behind her.

I sigh, sip the wine, then set it down. Silence hovers between me and Day before I say, “Day?”

“Liv?”

“It’s okay if I love him, isn’t it?” I finally meet her gaze.

“It’s always okay to love someone.”

“Even if it doesn’t always feel good? Even if it kills you as much as it makes you feel alive? Then is it okay still?”

Her lips turn up sadly. “I don’t know.”

After three hours of putting truffles into tiny little bags, labeling them, and tying them, I was more than ready to crash and not wake up for a very long time. Unfortunately, my mind had another idea—thousands of them, in fact.

I spent the whole night tossing and turning and only got a couple of hours of sleep when I got a cab home at four a.m. The sleep was broken and restless, but it was there at least.

I yawn and scratch Angus’s head. “Oh, buddy. What am I going to do?”

He looks at me and walks to his food bowl. For an animal that can catch a dumb amount of birds and mice, he’s sure dependent on me for food. I get up and give him some biscuits, muttering about needing to go to the store before it closes.

My eyes fall to the clock on the wall. It’s barely ten a.m., but my apartment is already cleaner than it’s been in, well, a couple of years. After weighing it up, I grab my car keys and make the drive to the bar.

Or Crimson Lounge, as the sign outside now proclaims.

The ‘L’ reaches up until a cocktail glass comes out of the top of it, totally eclipsing the word ‘crimson.’ But it looks incredible.

I unlock the door, push it open, and step into a different bar. All the furniture is now in its rightful place, albeit still covered, but the bar is as good as ready to go. Apart from the bottles I have to install into the optics this week and the glasses to put out, it’s done. The lights are all in place, curtain poles are up, and even the upstairs is done.

The place is empty, so I go upstairs, running my hand along the solid-wood banister. Upstairs is different than downstairs. The red is darker, the white brighter, the leather seats smoother. The bar is smaller and curved whereas downstairs it’s straight. The solid mahogany of the bar sets off the rest of the place, even the black floors.

I walk to the railings and lean over. Whoever designed this place did a great job. Better than great, actually. An amazing job.

I walk back downstairs and go the bar. A file is sitting on top of it. I missed it a moment ago, but I grab it now and read the note attached to the front.

Liv,

Here are all your applications for the bar. We filtered out the majority. Security is already hired, as is cleaning, so you just need to focus on bar staff, possible wait staff for busier nights, and an assistant manager. I’ll do the assistant manager interviews with you, but all the others are yours.

A

I open the file, my interest piqued. Considering they’ve already taken a bunch and said no, I’m assuming I’m getting the best of the bunch here. I better be, at least.

Although, I could sure use the distraction of a bunch of crap applicants.

I flick through each application, setting some aside whenever I read some good ones. Aaron—or rather his assistant—have sectioned off the applications, so it’s easy for me to do. There are plenty for cocktail shakers, and I’m definitely going to need proof of those skills before they’re hired.

That and I love watching them do those fancy-ass moves.

I set my number-one applicants to the front of the file and head back toward the storeroom. If the sign is up, chances are all the promotional items and other things are here too.

I’m right—there are boxes upon boxes in the room. I blink at them a few times before I unstack them. I look around for something to tear them open with, and some smart cookie has obviously thought of this because there’s a penknife on a shelf.

I grab it and slice through all the tape holding the boxes down. One box holds drinks mats for the tables. Another holds cloths for the bar. Another is full of menus, printed already, and I pick one up.

It’s in the club colors—red and white with a hint of black—and the logo is at the top. They’re gorgeously designed, with each part sectioned off just like Dayton suggested.

The Classics. Date Night. Girls’ Night. Break-Up Night. To Heck With It Night. Final Night of Freedom.

I see she went all in on the ‘night’ theme. I smile and put it back down. Amazing. There are all sorts of other little things in here, but right now, all I really want to do is pull all that plastic off the furniture and get this place looking like a real bar.

So I do. I leave the storeroom and pull the plastic off every table, off every chair, and I dump it all in the middle of the dance floor. But the sleek, leather booths and thick-glass tables and stools all look even better now.

I eye the bar and rest my hands on my hips. I want to pull it all off.

Oh, to fucking hell with it. I’m the manager here.

With a loud giggle, I put the file on a stool and whip the plastic off in one go so I can examine the bar properly. Smooth, dark, incredible. Perfectly carved and lit, it’s a little slice of heaven, perfectly adapted for cocktail-making.