When I hang up, I glance toward the front windows.
There’s a woman standing in front of the bakery space, her hands clasped loosely in front of her. Is that her? Has to be.
Even from here, I can see she’s tall and willowy, a brunette with masses of curly hair.
My type. There’s something about the way she’s looking at the place, her head tilted slightly, like she’s already seeing it the way it could be.
A low pull settles in my gut before I can stop it.
I squint, trying to catch more, but the angle of the light hides her face. Probably for the best. I shake my head, stepping back from the window.
Not a good idea to think thoughts like that about someone who might be signing a lease next door. No way.
Harold and Marlene ran that place like it was their living room. Everyone welcome, everyone fed. I’d like to see it come alive again. I just hope whoever this new tenant is knows what she’s walking into.
A couple of hours later, the place is hopping, just like I knew it would be. Every table inside is full, and the patio out front is packed too—locals with their usual orders, tourists trying something off the chalkboard specials. The air buzzes with conversation and the clink of glasses, the low thump of music in the background.
I’m behind the bar, pulling pints and mixing drinks without a second to breathe. Orders come in faster than I can finish them, and the line at the counter never seems to shrink.
My kitchen’s in overdrive, tickets clipped to the rail in an endless line. The smell of burgers and beer-battered fish filters through every time the swinging door opens, and I catch glimpses of my servers practically running, trays balanced high.
For half a second, I wish I could step back, lean against the wall, and just take a breath. But the thought barely sticks before it’s pushed out by something else—gratitude.
Because as exhausting as it is, this? This is everything I wanted when I opened The Wandering Pint.
When I first unlocked the doors a few years back, I didn’t know if we’d even make it through the first six months. I hoped. I planned. I worked every hour the place was open. But I never pictured this—tables turning over all day, people waiting outside before we even open, regulars who’ve turned into friends.
It’s a shock, in the best way. And even now, elbow-deep in drink orders, I’m not about to take it for granted.
“Hey, Hoffman! You saving any of that beer for the paying customers, or you just drinking it all yourself?”
The familiar voice cuts through the noise, and I glance up from the tap handles. Speaking of friends. Jason Richards stands on the other side of the bar, grinning like he’s been waiting all morning to throw that line at me.
We’ve been best friends since I moved here with my dad when I was sixteen. Went to Harvard together—yeah, I know, two Paducah boys in Boston, hell of a story—and somehow both ended up right back where we started. I built The Wandering Pint from scratch; Jason opened a gym a few blocks over. Different worlds, same stubborn drive.
“Pretty sure I’ve poured more pints for you than you’ve ever paid for,” I shoot back, sliding a finished beer toward one of the regulars before wiping down the bar.
Jason leans an elbow on the counter like he’s settling in for a while. “Perks of friendship. Besides, I bring you clients.”
I snort. “You mean those guys who come in after workouts and cancel out every calorie they burned?”
“Exactly.” He flashes a quick grin. “Keeps us both in business.”
I grab a clean pint glass and hold it under the tap. “What are you having?”
“Whatever’s new,” Jason says, glancing around like he’s taking stock of the crowd. “Place is slammed.”
“Yeah,” I say, pulling the handle and watching the amber stream fill the glass. “Good problem to have.” I set it in front of him, foam settling just right.
He takes a sip, nodding his approval. “Not bad. Almost makes me forget you still owe me from poker night.”
I roll my eyes, grabbing a towel to mop up a spill near the register. “Pretty sure we agreed that debt was paid when I spotted you a month’s worth of burgers.”
“That’s not how that works,” he says, smirking.
“Then stop losing.”
He laughs, shaking his head. “Fair enough.” Jason takes another drink, then tips his chin toward the window.
