Five

JULIEN

Change, in the restaurant industry, happens swiftly. Over the course of a single week, Julien's head hasn't stopped speeding with all the newness Greg has unleashed upon Martin's Place. It's impossible for him not to begrudge Greg for spectacularly disrupting his routine. He has a one-track mind, after all.

Blame it on the OCD. When his brain sticks on something, it's done with Gorilla Glue, not Elmer's. Which is why he's having such difficulty performing two new duties at once: upping his friendly tableside manner as per Uncle Martin's request (demand) and avoiding Greg Harlow at all costs.

These things seem mutually exclusive because he, as a server, is unable to avoid the bar. Patrons order drinks, and Greg makes the drinks, and Julien has to get the drinks to serve them. He is so wrapped up in the minutiae that he has spent no fewer than three restless nights thinking of ways to subtly convince Aunt Augustine to stagger their schedules so they're never working on the same nights, which would directly go against his promise to try to befriend Greg.

Those sleepless nights are to blame for the extra-dark bags under his already perpetually sleepy-looking eyes and the sluggishness of his mid-shift gait as he saunters over to his section, where a new couple has just been seated at the two-top by the window. He swears Braydon is purposefully putting all the walk-ins in his domain, making his night more hectic.

Julien grabs a full carafe of water from the server stand and tries not to think about that, but once again, his brain has latched on to something and refuses to set it free like a hawk with a field mouse in its talons.

"Welcome to Martin's Place. My name is Julien. I'll be taking care of you this evening. Are we celebrating anything special?" Aunt Augustine advised this question to the entire staff to spark conversation and show interest in the customer. He frankly doesn't care much for what brought them into Martin's Place, only that they are there, which is good for all involved.

"It's actually our first date," the white man—bearded with longish black hair—says, reaching a hand across the table to his companion, a dark-skinned woman with a bright red manicure wrapped around her empty water glass. Julien tips the carafe he's been carrying and fills it.

"Wonderful. Happy to have you!" He hopes he doesn't sound as false as he feels spouting Aunt Augustine's words and sporting a goofy service smile like Greg's.

Greg.He needs to not think about Greg. Or Braydon. Or Greg and Braydon. And whether or not, like the couple in front of him, they're forging something romantic together.

Because his rational brain knows it's none of his business. But his rational brain is not the part of him responsible for the rambunctious conga line of jealousy snaking through his chest right now. Upon reflection, while standing at the bus stop on Greg's first night, he replayed their interaction after the spill in his head. Often, he needs remove from a situation to fully assess his actions and emotions, so on that empty street at 11:30 p.m. while listening to Mozart, he did a rundown of his evening. Declining the cocktail was rude. Fleeing after making a mess was disrespectful. Not only did he owe Greg his clean shirt back, but he owed him a proper apology.

After his conversation with Aunt Augustine, he was more than ready to give one and the ride home seemed like the perfect place to do it...until he saw Braydon in the passenger's seat of Greg's car and his mind turned to unimaginable static.

"We're happy to be here," the woman says, jolting Julien before he overfills the glass and floods the table. "We saw this place on TikTok and decided to stop in since it's so close and we didn't even know it was here."

Julien chooses to ignore the TikTok comment. "Would you like to hear our specials?"

When the couple nods, he reaches for the pad in the front pocket of his black apron and begins his recitation, which hampers his racing thoughts and cools down his body.

During the pre-shift meeting, he always writes down Chef Marco's specials, including every ingredient, no matter how small. For most of the staff, this transcription is to ensure no food allergy mishaps arise, but for Julien, it's also a test.

With everything he knows about wine, he considers the unique combination of flavors and spices in Chef Marco's dishes, then goes over the wine storage and sorts through the various vintages. Of course, he's not able to taste test all his pairings, but he has an expansive enough palate to make an educated guess that will satisfy even the most difficult customer.

Satisfying a customer is like hearing "Magnificat" performed live by the Bach Choir of Bethlehem at Christmastime—it puts him entirely at peace.

"While you think on your options, can I start you off with something from the bar?" he asks, already prepared to pop the cork on a beautiful bottle of sparkling white from Spain that will pair best with the fried calamari he suspects they're considering.

That's until he senses a pair of eyes on him. When he glances across the restaurant, Greg is behind the bar, looking at him. It's an arresting gaze that confuses and excites him in equal measure.

"Did you want to write that down?" the man at the table asks Julien, whose pen is frozen above his pad. It's as if the muscles in his fingers have turned off.

"Oh, yes. Sorry," he says. "Would you mind repeating that?" He spares no second glance at Greg.

"Sure," the man says. He speaks slower and louder this time for reasons beyond Julien. "I think we're going to start with the calamari plate and two of the Getting to Know You gin and tonics."

This is the fourth table tonight where the customers ignored the wine pairings Julien had Uncle Martin print on the menus and instead went for one of Greg's flashy cocktails promoted in a shiny plastic stand in the center of the table.

"That is an excellent choice," he says, withholding any contrary words. "I'll be back to take your entrée selections shortly."

Turning away quickly, he hides his scowl. He's not looking forward to having to approach Greg who is in deep conversation with a gentleman, probably in his midforties with glasses and broad shoulders. Greg leans forward on his elbows, biceps on display, enraptured by whatever the man is saying. Something about moonshine, Julien catches on his way around.

It's bad enough Julien is jealous of whatever Braydon got up to with Greg on his first night here. His wine pairings being overshadowed by Greg's cocktails only adds insult to injury.

"Order up," Julien says after clearing his throat, rudely interrupting Greg's conversation with the stately-looking man. The bar may be mostly empty, but the dining room is full, and Julien wants to leave this exchange as quickly as possible.

"Just a minute," Greg says, writing down a list of ingredients for what Julien assumes is a cocktail recipe.

Julien doesn't realize he's tapping his foot impatiently until Greg's gaze slips from the napkin in front of him down to the ground. Greg raises a discomfited eyebrow at him, and he stops.

"Why don't you add your number while you're at it?" the man asks Greg, barely acknowledging Julien's presence, which irks him even more.

Greg, without missing a beat, flashes a smile, scribbles his phone number beneath the recipe, and slips it to the man he's been chatting with.

Once again, Julien's mind Gorilla Glues itself to something he'd rather not spend mental capital considering.

Too late. Already, he's replaying the scene outside the staff bathroom from last week, the one where Greg caught his eyes wandering down his worked-out torso. Julien has been in a bit of a sex drought since Colin moved away, and Greg was standing there half naked with the confidence of an early 2000s Abercrombie model. It's a perfect storm.

As of late, his sexual routine has been stymied, and the apps have been moot. Basically, he's a bottle of young tannic red, desperate for air, and Greg is the shiny new aerator on the market. It's natural that he wants to play with it. He's used to wanting things he can't have. He wanted parents who got along with each other and spent their paychecks on food instead of booze so he wasn't hungry all the time. He wanted broader shoulders and bigger arms so he could stick up for himself when the kids at school bullied him for not having "real parents" when Uncle Martin chaperoned one of their class trips. He wanted to win the lottery so he could untie his dream for a bigger life from his sommelier studies and just enjoy them again. But he is disciplined enough to realize when a want is unrealistic.

And wanting Greg Harlow is about as unrealistic as it gets.

Because Greg Harlow is a luxury. He is the car and the clothes and the coffees Julien doesn't allow himself to get. The indulgences that don't fit neatly into his precise budgeting, which means he needs to scribble them out of his mental math and move on.

When Julien spies Braydon out of the corner of his eye, unable to catch his breath under a barrage of intrusive thoughts, he slaps the drink order down in Braydon's hand and says, "Pass this to your new friend Greg. I need some air."

Flustered and frustrated, cheeks hot and heart rate elevated, Julien makes his way to the alley behind the restaurant, does some deep breathing, and seriously considers a cigarette even though he doesn't have one on him nor has he smoked. Not once. Not ever.

GREG

Toward the middle of Greg's shift, a broad-shouldered man in a pair of fetching glasses sits down at the bar and immediately hits Greg with the eyes. A flirtatious look is a welcome reprieve from worrying about where Julien is at every nanosecond.

Greg wouldn't say he's been avoiding Julien tonight.

Not exactly.

Yet every time he catches sight of the sommelier, the memory of that solo orgasm that felt like jumping out of an airplane rockets back to him, and that makes his new job more complicated than he'd like it to be. Until he untethers the guilt he carries about using his coworker's shirt as fuel for his heaving fantasy, it's better he keeps to himself.

When he didn't want to engage with someone in New York City, all he had to do was send a noncommittal text and stay away from certain cafés and clubs. Easy-peesy.

Martin's Place? It's not exactly the island of Manhattan. It's probably only a couple thousand square feet in total, and from his perch behind the bar, Greg has an eagle-eye view of the entire establishment. Which means he's bombarded with glimpses of Julien's face—crinkled a bit, but cute—as he takes an order, and Julien's backside—surprisingly round for how slender he is—as he carries a tray to a table.

When Julien stands at a high-top table near the window in front of two people who appear to be on a first date, Julien's expression fluctuates wildly from attentive to glazed and far-off. Greg wonders what's on Julien's mind. What kinds of thoughts could've carved those twin divots in the middle of his brow?

But then Julien looks up and catches his gaze. A locked-and-loaded moment goes by where Greg attempts to read Julien's thoughts, despite his countenance being impenetrable. Impossible. Greg exhales loudly and gets back to work.

He starts making the handsome, patient man at the bar a Manhattan (oh the irony), and he's reminded of a darker time in his life. Upon closer inspection, the man has a solid, wide build, a buzzed head, a sharp jaw, and deep-set eyes. Similar to some of the teachers he had as a cadet. Men with gruff demeanors who, starting in grade seven, cared little for niceties and emotion.

Perhaps that's why he is so taken with Julien.

He stops that thought dead in its tracks and reengages the man at the bar as he serves him his drink. "What are we drinking to tonight?" Greg asks, grabbing a rag and wiping down the nearby counter.

"I'm a pilot. Landed in Allentown today. Back on the Orlando route early tomorrow morning. Decided to treat myself to a cocktail," the man says with a charming smile. "And some friendly chat, but it seems like that's not in the cards."

Greg follows the man's gaze down the empty bar. Martin's Place has more of a reputation as a restaurant than a bar, so despite his drinks being a popular order for the diners, he's been solitary behind this slab of wood, backed by fifty-some-odd bottles of liquor and wine. Though he still doesn't really touch the wine. He suspects if he tried, Julien would bite his hand off.

But, once again, he's not supposed to be thinking about Julien, so he says, "I've been told I'm a sterling conversationalist." Greg leans onto the bar, a move he knows shows off his biceps in his black T-shirt with the tight sleeve cuffs. He flashes a cheeky smirk instead of a smile.

"I'm Jeff."

"Greg."

"Nice to meet you."

"You as well," Greg says, flicking on the charisma. "I've never met a pilot before. What's it like?"

As Jeff discusses the ins and outs of operating an aircraft, Greg works very hard not to be distracted by Julien across the way. He's not positive, but Julien is potentially wearing the button-down he borrowed last week, the one he sumptuously pleasured himself to the scent of.

Curiously, right now he's not focused on that particular indiscretion. Instead, he's fixated on how Julien moves around the tables and bustling diners with directness, turns at right angles and never flags in pace. His gaze is sharp, and his speech is matter-of-fact. If Greg is small-talk incarnate, Julien is a precise soliloquy.

"Why bartending?" Jeff asks.

Greg nods as if he's still processing all that Jeff just said, when really he wasn't listening in the slightest. "I kind of fell into bartending. After high school..." Greg never refers to the academy as anything other than high school to avoid the probing questions "...I cut ties with a lot of people and moved to New York City like a lot of dreamers do."

"Bartending was your dream?" Pilot Jeff asks, almost patronizingly, but Greg wants a good tip, so he doesn't pay it any mind.

Greg shrugs. "I think the dream was just to become someone in a new city."

"Someone or someone?"

It's the kind of question only a man your senior could ask you. Greg wants to believe that he moved to New York to be someone who was independent, starting fresh, forgetting the past and the pain. He adopted a sunny demeanor, got into therapy, and tried to make a living as best he could. But would he have started his TikTok account or dated Stryker or gotten himself into debt if he didn't want to be someone, too?

"I'm still figuring that out," Greg says good-naturedly. "But I like mixed drinks, and I like talking to people and making people happy, so this is kind of the perfect storm for me, career-wise."

"I used to make moonshine back in the day. What's your favorite drink you've ever created?" Pilot Jeff asks.

Greg doesn't have to think too hard about this one. He immediately lists the ingredients for a limoncello cosmopolitan—he always dreamed of going to the Amalfi Coast where his mother's family is from and wandering the lemon groves along the shoreline. The cocktail has to be strained into a chilled glass and garnished just so. There's real artistry to it. Pilot Jeff asks him to write that down so he can make it for himself sometime.

Julien appears suddenly at his side. "Order up."

Jeez.Greg loses track of Julien for one second, and now he's invading his space with brusqueness and the intoxicating scent of honeysuckle. "Just a minute."

A tapping from the floor draws his attention away from the napkin he's writing on. Is Julien really trying to speed him up with that old trick?

"Why don't you add your number while you're at it?" asks Pilot Jeff.

Harmless.Giving out his number is harmless. It's like giving out a flier for a Broadway show in Times Square. Nine times out of ten it ends up in a trash can or left in a pants pocket and run through the wash. This kind of interaction is surely why he was hired in the first place. So he writes it down.

Pilot Jeff waggles the napkin like it's a treasure map. "I'll leave you to it. Keep the change." He drops a fat wad of cash on the counter and leaves.

Greg turns to finally address Julien and his supreme impatience, only to find Braydon standing in his place, looking confused. "Julien is apparently incapable of giving this to you, so here. It's for table twelve."

Greg takes the handwritten order from Braydon who's sauntering away before he can even say a word. Two GTKYGTs—Getting to Know You gin and tonics. He doesn't need an advanced degree to decode that acronym, but what gives? All he did was ask for a minute.

He worries now that he may have a new, non-shirt-related reason to avoid Julien: Julien doesn't like me.

Greg can't stomach that if true. He worked too hard in the academy and in New York to be bright and agreeable with everyone he meets. Besides, Julien is the one who spilled all over Greg and declined his generous ride, so if anyone is going to dislike someone, it should be Greg disliking Julien.

Too bad Greg doesn't have that ability. Not really.

Which is why his anxious thoughts run off like a provoked herd of cattle, and his chest becomes a vice around his heart. The air in the room is suddenly thick and difficult to breathe. It's been a while since he's suffered an attack like this.

He reaches into his back pocket for the baggie he always keeps there. It's his in-case-of-emergency beta blocker. That little orange pill, once swallowed with a glass of ice water, quiets his fritzing neurons, allowing his heart rate to slow and his breathing to mellow out. The thoughts still race, but his body doesn't respond as sharply to them.

Shortly after, a group of middle-aged women take seats at the far end of the bar, flicking glances his way and whispering to each other.

Well, fine. If he can't win over the scowling sommelier, then he'll set his sights on easier targets. He rolls out his neck and slings back his shoulders, dropping out of his head and back into his body.

Happy for the distraction, he slides over to the gaggle of chatty women, dons a protective megawatt smile, and makes their evening with craft cocktails and more harmless flirtation.