1. Erica

one

Erica

Pine Grove 1991

W annabes is busier than usual tonight, which is good since I desperately need the tip money. I've applied to a few hospitals around the area but prefer to stay in town and not have to move. The job openings for nurses are slim in this college town—everyone who graduates from Pine Grove Community College's nursing program wants to stay close to home.

I sat for my boards last week, and now I'm patiently waiting for my results to arrive in the mail. On the bright side, I can continue to pick up shifts at Wannabes' Sports Bar and save for the expense of moving to a new town. I don't mind working at Wannabes. The sports-themed bar is fun and laid-back. The only thing I don't like is the uniform—the top isn't bad, but the shorts, on the other hand, are way too tight and short.

The purple and white pinstriped baseball jersey is fine, but I replaced my tight, black shorts with a short, flowy black skort that swishes when I walk. The manager hasn't said anything, and I've worked here for the last two years while I've been attending nursing school.

"Hey, Erica. I need you to take over the patio section for Jennifer." Woody, the head bartender, calls over the beer taps.

"Sure thing, Boss." I grab my tray, weave through the crowd, and headed to the patio.

As I open the side door, the warm August wind blows through the patio's screened-in windows. All eight tables are packed with customers talking about tonight's Billy Joel Storm Front concert.

What I wouldn't give to go to that concert—piano players are my weakness. I know most girls are drawn to the lead singer, but I'm done for if the lead singer also plays the piano. Unfortunately the extra expense of the concert ticket isn't in my budget.

I scan the tables, noticing that all but one have full drinks. And, of course, that table has five gorgeous guys waiting patiently for me to take their orders.

They're not the typical college guys who frequent the bar—these five look to be in their late twenties or early thirties. I approach the table with a smile. "Hi, my name is Erica. I'll be your server today. What can I get you?" I slip my order pad and pen out of my black apron.

Five pairs of eyes connect with mine, "Well, aren't you a pretty little thing? Did it hurt?"

Ugh, great, another table of preppy douchebags. If the Ralph Lauren Polo shirts weren't a dead giveaway, the cheesy pick-up line is.

Ignoring his horrible attempt at flirting, I turn to the other guys at the table when my eyes lock on a pair of forest green eyes and dark chocolate-colored hair. His lips curve into a smile: "Please excuse our friend, Dough. He doesn't get out much." Causing everyone at the table to laugh, except Doug.

His deep voice has me straightening my shoulders and clenching my thighs together. "Um, it's okay. Now, what can I get you to drink?" Everyone rattles off their order, even the first guy, who now has his arms crossed over his chest, glaring at the table. "I'll be right back with your orders."

Once inside the bar, I wait my turn to tell a bartender my drink orders—my mind wandering back to the green-eyed guy on the patio.

A tap on my shoulder has me turning around. "Sorry about my friend—he thinks he's God's gift to women. I'm Mike, by the way." He reaches for my hand and introduces himself.

"Nice to meet you too, Mike—don't worry about your friend. All the corny pickup lines are part of being a waitress." I shrug, but truthfully, I'd rather not deal with the pick-up lines. I want a guy to be open and honest with me, not play games.

In the five minutes I've known Mike, he seems honest and trustworthy—someone I could see spending the rest of my life with.

"Erica, you're next. What do you need?" Woody calls from behind the bar.

Crap, it's my turn for my drink order, "I, um, better get your drinks." I glance at the bar and then back at Mike. The last thing I want to do is end our conversation. "I'll see you later."

I'll see you later—real smooth Erica.

He doesn't move. Instead, he stares at me like he wants to say more before finally saying, "I better get back to the guys before Doug tries to pick up someone else."

I nod, then turn back to the bar, handing Woody my drink order, his eyebrows kissing his forehead in a silent question. I've never spent this much time talking to a customer before, so I'm sure he's curious, but I'm not in the mood to dissect my feelings for a complete stranger.

"Erica," Mike says, drawing my attention back to him. "At least let me make it up to you. What time do you get off work?"