Lots and lots of whiskey, please.

[clochettee]

The raucous wave of laughter had knocked Katie back slightly, her dangerously close to drooping eyelids snapping open and widening as she shared a glance with Ted, her co-agent with the Irish National team. She had obviously missed a very funny joke. But thankfully, no one paid her any attention, the lot of them having too much fun teasing Ted for

Comments

[plainlypat]

It never really seemed to get old - the happy hour/after hours shift behind the bar. Even after this many years spent shuffling bottles, sidestepping spill puddles, and handling the widest range of customers, there was something Patrick just inherently enjoyed about being on this side of the counter.

Which was why, even with a full staff on hand and a looming pile of forms waiting for him in the back office (lease renewal was a bastard of a paperwork mess), he still found himself at the corner of the bar, keeping a casual, careful eye on the crowd and some of its more boisterous corners (this was hardly the most brawl-inclined place he'd ever worked in, but white-collar tempers could still be known to flare quickly with enough boozy accelerant), and enjoying the overheard banter and people-watching.

And of course, there was always something to be said for the view-

"Not all for you, I hope?" Patrick quipped, almost automatically and before he could really help himself. A twinge of cringing embarrassment at the horridly stereotypical charming-bartender-bad-joke-nuance of the comment tilted an apologetic grin across his face as he slid the six glasses across the bar and methodically picked out and tipped the necessary bottles in a swift order.

[clochettee]

"Absolutely-"

She replied without hesitation as she raised an eyebrow, leaning her elbow against the shiny cherry wood. She allowed herself to be distracted for a brief moment, enough to take in the very tall, very handsome man standing across from her.

"Wait- are you insinuating I can't handle my liquor?"

She grinned after a moment.

"Because I'll tell you," she started, a conspiratorial look flickering across her face. "You try and sit with a load of sports blokes for hours at a time. You learn to manage your tolerances."

[plainlypat]

A quick flash of pleased surprise sparked Patrick's expression as he glanced up from his work, dripping bitters into the two old-fashioned glasses with practiced, thoughtless measurements, a short bark of laughter clinking along with the shift of bottles.

"Oh, I wouldn't dare to pass that judgement. I was just going to advise against mixing your whiskey blends," he countered with a mock-solemn shake of his head. Another tip of a bottle, the flip of a shaker, ice cube clink, orange slices, two-fingers neat-

With barely a look to double check the accuracy of his guess, Patrick slid the last, plainly (perfectly, he would argue) filled glass to her side of the counter, grouping the rest of the drinks together onto one of the small carrying trays he grabbed from the stack next to the ice box.

"I imagine you can keep up with those sports blokes just fine."

[clochettee]

He had this sort of rugged sex appeal thing going for him. The long hair, the eyes that Angelina would have said in an obnoxious accent were "for the bedroom" and that smile- well, that was really pleasant in a myriad of ways to see, especially after toothy, cocky grins from the boys at the table in the back.

She couldn't help but let her eyes flicker toward the easy motions of his hands as he made her order, her smile widening as she watched him pass the neat whiskey directly toward her.

"I do my best," she said, nodding her head. "Gotta let them think they have the upper hand- otherwise it would ruin all my fun when I swoop in and land the deal."

She brought the glass to her lips, taking a small sip.

"How'd you know?" she asked, gesturing to the glass.

[plainlypat]

"Trick o' the trade," Patrick replied with a half shrug and a teasing twitch of his grin. What was it they said about bartenders- part therapist, part enabler, part mind reader? He'd made a living out of being able to casually read people (or at least, the parts of them that spelled out their likely drink preferences) after just a few first-impression seconds, no spells or potions necessary.

Sure, a lot of it came down to careful guess work, but some people's tell-tale signs were clearer than others.

This? This here was a neat-whiskey woman.

...Not that he had any kind of an opinion about whiskey women. After all, it was the fruity, overly complicated, colorfully layered, garnish-heavy, simple-syrup-based concoctions usually ordered by clueless men for bored dates that really turned over profit. No matter how much self-control it still took to stop himself from rolling his eyes every time he slid one of those embarrassingly fluorescent mixes into the hands of a customer.

Some drink orders just invited lingering small talk more than others.

He waved a hand out in a general indicative motion, shrugging again. "It suits you."

[clochettee]

She couldn't help but follow his hand, eyes glancing down at her own business-like attire, so much unlike what she usually wore when she wasn't trying to secure deals. But then, somehow, she didn't mind the assumption. He had gotten it right, after all. So maybe beneath the tweed dress and high heels, there was still some Katie Bell screaming out after all.

"Been a steady choice since I was seventeen," she laughed. "Much better than firewh- well, you know- I'm sure you get enough orders for Cosmopolitans and Appletinis in here."

She had to remind herself this was a strictly non-magical place. It was enough to have to make sure she had remembered her Muggle credit card for the evening- she couldn't go and confuse the astoundingly handsome bright spot of the evening with talk of magic and firewhiskey.