7. Michael

Michael

“ W elcome to Sweet Cocktails, what can I get you?”

The brunette who walked in and sat at the corner of the bar looked classy.

She was wearing an expensive looking dress that hugged her full breasts before draping over her slim waist and narrow hips. The skirt stopped a couple of inches above her knee, revealing muscular legs made longer by the ridiculously high heeled shoes she wore. She had thick, dark brown hair that cascaded down past her shoulders in soft waves, pale skin, huge brown eyes, and blood red lips that matched her tastefully short, manicured fingernails.

She was stunningly beautiful. She also looked vaguely familiar.

“I’d like a dirty martini, please.”

She had a throaty voice that made my cock twitch in interest.

“Vodka or gin?” I asked, impressed that she wasn’t ordering a fruity drink or a glass of wine like most of the women who came in here.

“Vodka, Grey Goose, five olives. And I’ll take it on the rocks, please.”

I raised my eyebrows. This woman knew her martinis. “Coming right up.”

I poured her a glass of water and slid it over to her before starting on her drink. As a rule, I gave everyone water with their beverages. The bar was relatively quiet right now, giving me the opportunity to study her covertly while I poured the ingredients into the metal shaker and gave it a few shakes to chill the liquid inside.

“Here you go,” I said, setting her drink on a coaster.

She picked it up immediately, taking a healthy sip. Her eyes closed in pleasure, making my throat dry. I reached for a glass of water for myself.

“Mm. This is good, thank you.” She gave me a small, polite smile.

“I haven’t seen you in here before,” I said conversationally.

“Probably because I haven’t been here before,” she said wryly. “You haven’t been open that long.”

I took the hint and busied myself wiping down the surface of the bar top and filling orders for the other customers seated along the bar. The woman drank most of her drink before she spoke again.

“I’m sorry, that was rude,” she said when I came down to see if she wanted a refill. “I’ve had a hard day, but that’s no reason for me to take it out on you.”

I threw the bar towel over my shoulder and moved closer. “I’m all ears if you want to talk.”

When she didn’t respond, I stuck out my hand. “I’m Michael, by the way.”

She studied my hand for a second before sliding her fingers into mine. I felt a little jolt of something that felt a lot like attraction, but I pushed it away. Whatever was going on with this woman she didn’t need some bartender hitting on her.

Of course the bartender was also the owner of this establishment, but she didn’t know that. I tried to keep my position here quiet when I was working with the line staff so I could get a clear picture of how the business operations and customer service was working.

“I’m Olga.”

Our eyes met and the synapses in my brain started to fire with memories from long ago. “Olga Pavlenko?”

Her eyes widened in surprise. “Yes, do we know each other?”

“Michael Kobylarczyk, we went to grammar school together.”

Her face lit up. “Oh my God! Mikey? I can’t believe it’s you!”

She jumped up on the foot rail beneath the bar and stretched over the top, grabbing me into a hug. I popped up on my tiptoes to meet her in the middle, wrapping my arms around her shoulders and giving her a quick squeeze. I caught a whiff of something floral in her hair.

“I haven’t seen you since, what, fifth grade?” she said. “How are you?”

Olga and I had both attended St. Stanislaus Catholic Grammar School back in the day. Neither of us was Catholic. My family was Lutheran and hers was Ukrainian Orthodox, but St. Stanislaus was a highly rated school, and the Catholic teachings had enough similarities to our own faiths that our families thought it was our best option for getting into a good high school.

I first talked to Olga on the playground in kindergarten. It was a hot September day and the nuns had sent us all outside for recess and a snack break. I hadn’t made any friends yet, and apparently neither had Olga, because she was sitting alone on a bench under a tree. I knew who she was since we had a small class.

***

“Hi Olga, whatcha got there?” I asked as I sat down next to her.

Instead of the cartoon themed lunchboxes the rest of us had, Olga’s snacks were in a quilted bag. She took out a pear, then unwrapped some foil to reveal a hunk of thick dark bread with a couple of slices of what looked like salami. She sighed as she unwrapped the final item, a hard-boiled egg.

I wondered why her snack looked like something my grandmother would eat, but I didn’t want to hurt her feelings, so I kept my mouth shut.

“What did you bring?” she asked curiously.

I opened my Transformers lunchbox. “I’ve got a peanut butter sandwich, string cheese, a banana, and ooh, two twinkies!” I held up my dessert triumphantly.

“I’ve never had any of those things,” she said. “Other than a banana.”

“Why not?”

“Because my mama only makes Ukrainian food.”

“What’s Krainian food?” I asked, mispronouncing the word.

“Yoo-krainian,” she corrected, emphasizing the first syllable. “It’s the country where my parents came from. It’s in Europe.”

“But you’re in America now,” I said with the certainty of a five-year-old. “You should be able to eat Twinkies.”

“That’s not what my mama says.”

Olga sounded sad. I couldn’t say why, but it really bothered me. I wanted her to be happy.

“She always tells my sister Alona and me that we don’t want to eat American junk food cuz it’s bad for us and Ukrainian food is better for our health.”

I considered this for a few seconds. I was pretty sure my mom wouldn’t give me food that was bad for us.

“Do you want to try some of mine?” I asked, handing her half of my sandwich.

My mom always told me it was good to share.

Olga’s eyes lit up and she gave me a huge smile. I fell a little bit in love with her right then.

“Really?”

“Yes, but you’ll have to be my girlfriend now.”

Her eyes bounced between my face and the sandwich half that still was suspended between us.

“It’s a deal.”

She snatched the sandwich out of my hand and took a big bite. “This is yummy.”

“It’s because my mom buys the kind with peanut butter and jelly in the same jar,” I told her authoritatively. “It’s the best. But wait until you try the twinkies.”

***

After that, Olga and I were fast friends. I asked my mother for more food in my lunch box every day. I don’t know if she thought I was just really hungry, I was bartering snacks, or if she suspected I was sharing with someone else. Either way, all the way through fifth grade I gave Olga half of my lunch every day.

Sometimes she would share her Ukrainian lunches with me as well. It wasn’t that they were bad – in fact, I loved the thick grain-filled bread that she often paired with spicy mustard and an assortment of meat and cheeses – it was more about Olga not wanting to look like “the foreign girl” as she always told me.

In addition to sharing lunches we often played together on the playground. We were both super smart, so we were assigned to the same honors classes from third grade on. Although we both had our own friends, Olga and I were always in each other’s orbit.

At least until we were ten. That was the year my parents got a divorce. My dad moved away, and my mom moved me and my sister to the suburbs over the summer between fifth and sixth grade. I’d been devastated. I was losing my father, my neighborhood, and my friends, changing schools and moving to some place far away from the city. Even for a normally easy going kid like me, it was a lot to handle.

I said a stoic goodbye to all my friends in the neighborhood, including Olga, then burst into tears the minute my mother pulled our old station wagon away from the curb and headed for the south suburbs. We moved into a house a few blocks from my grandparents, which was great for my mom since she was a single mother and back then, dads mostly only got visitation with their kids on the weekends.

Kids were resilient. Before long I got used to my new school and my new neighborhood and made new friends. Twenty-five years later, I’d almost forgotten about Olga. But when I realized who the cutie at the bar was, it all came rushing back.

My kindergarten girlfriend had grown into a beautiful woman. A smart one too. By the time she finished her second martini, I’d convinced her to move into a corner booth with me to have dinner so we could talk more.

“How long is your break?” she asked, as we perused the menu.

Sweet Cocktails had a variety of appetizers, small plates, and fancy burgers, all of which were perfect for happy hours and dates.

“As long as I want.” At her curious look I said, “I’m actually the owner of the Chicago Sweet Cocktails location.”

“You do?” she asked in surprise. “Is this a chain or something?”

“There are Sweet Cocktail locations all over the world,” I explained. “The company sells limited licensing rights for people who want to buy the concept and open a place of their own without starting from scratch. I visited the location in Los Angeles and really liked the concept of high end cocktails and gourmet small plates in a fancier neighborhood, so I bought in and opened this location.”

“Wow, that’s great. Do you work here full time then? Or how does it work?” she asked.

“Usually when I buy a new business, I work there for six months or so to make sure the roll-out is going okay and that things are going according to plan. I like to get my hands dirty and not just rely on a manager.”

“When you buy a new business?” she echoed. “You’ve done this before?”

“Yeah, I have a company that buys businesses, makes them profitable, and then I sell them for a profit. That’s what I’ll do with Sweet Cocktails eventually.”

“Do you only buy bars?” she asked.

“No, I invest in anything with a service component that has the potential for high profitability,” I explained. “Bars, restaurants, fitness centers. Oh, and I’ve revitalized two boutique hotels.”

“Wow.” She looked impressed. “You’ve really made a success for yourself.”

“I do okay,” I said modestly.

Her expression turned sad. “I wish I could be more successful.”

“Why? What do you do?”

She shook her head and mustered a smile. “You know what, I’m being ridiculous. I’m no business mogul like you, but I have a very good job that I love, one that pays me well. I’m just having a bad day due to an unexpected financial set-back.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” I asked, echoing my words from earlier.

She hesitated long enough that I thought she wasn’t going to share, then she spoke again.

“I got evicted from my apartment today, well I got a thirty day notice to move, anyway. It’s not my fault, they’re selling the building, but I just know it’s going to be another reason my parents think I’m a failure. They think because I’m not married and don’t own a home, I’m some kind of a slacker. When I got the eviction notice, I just let that noise get into my head,” she explained. “I mean, it’s a hassle to move again, and my savings will take another hit, but I’m fortunate enough to be able to afford a decent place in a decent neighborhood so I really should stop griping.”

“Wait, you’re looking for a new place to live?” I asked.

“Yeah, and fast too. I only have thirty days to move. Why? Do you know of any rentals coming up?” she asked.

The words were out of my mouth before my brain caught up. “You should move in with me. My place is much larger than I need, and I have a spare bedroom you can use.”

Olga’s mouth opened in surprise. My eyes flew to her lips, and I had a flash of something else she could do with those lips, but I shut that line of thought down right away. I was attracted to Olga, hell I’d fallen half in love with her the minute I set eyes on her again, but I wasn’t going to start creeping on her, especially if she was going to be my roommate.

If she decided she was going to be my roommate…