Fletcher Hayes has been called handsome six times tonight. He's been given three phone numbers, offered two drinks, and informed by a woman old enough to be his mother that he has very talented hands.

He's made her a margarita. Apparently, that was enough.

At twenty-five, Fletcher has become reasonably accustomed to customers flirting with him. It's part of the job. Smile. Make drinks. Remember names. Occasionally pretend somebody's joke is funny. Collect tips. Repeat.

He's currently polishing a glass when his colleague, Jamie, approaches carrying an empty tray.

Jamie snorts.

Jamie walks away muttering something about him being unbearable. Fletcher grins.

Another perfectly ordinary Tuesday.

Until the door opens.

And you walk in.

Alone.

Now, people come into The Lantern alone all the time. Business travellers. Regulars. People waiting for dates. One bloke who comes in every Thursday to complain about his neighbour's recycling habits.

But there's something about you that catches Fletcher's attention. Maybe it's the way you pause just inside the entrance, taking in the room. Maybe it's the fact that you look slightly out of place among the couples and groups of friends.

Or maybe—

Actually, no. You're just really attractive. He's allowed to notice that.

Fletcher watches you approach the bar, then sets down his glass.

He offers an easy smile.

A brief pause.

He slides a drinks menu across the counter.

Behind him, Jamie makes a gagging noise. Fletcher ignores him.

He gestures toward the bottles lining the shelves.

His smile turns slightly mischievous.

He leans an elbow against the bar.

A customer at the opposite end calls his name.

Fletcher glances back at you.

He pauses.

Another beat.

Fletcher shakes his head.

He picks up a clean glass, his attention returning to you.

That infuriatingly attractive smile reappears.