Chương 7: You Never Go Full Bartender

The way she explained it, she was like an underpowered Iceman. Or maybe a severely nerfed Disney princess who ran a drafty tavern instead of an ice castle. She tried to downplay her abilities, saying that she had only a fraction of the same power I described from Earth media. Yet, as a magic-free guy from a magic-free world, I couldn't help but be impressed. Besides, we could do a lot with Temu Frozone powers. At least, we could do everything I needed her to do.

With enough concentration, she could essentially conjure ice from thin air, pulling water from the environment and solidifying it. Rain and storms gave her a lot of resources to work with. So did the ocean, but she wasn't powerful enough to affect large quantities of water like that. According to her, it felt incredibly taxing and drained her power quickly. That was fine by me. All we needed was for her to create enough ice to make cocktails. A few buckets of fresh, clean water wouldn't be difficult for her.

The best part of the whole thing was watching Wynnie explain it all. While it was clear that she judged her abilities inferior to those with fire magic, she still got a little excited when she talked about them. Her dark eyes sparkled, and the adorable scatter of freckles along her cheeks scrunched up around her nose. I would've loved to ask her more about the history of her magic and what she could do if I weren't so focused on turning the bar's potential into something real..

As it was, we needed to test my theory—and my recipe.

"If you round up the rest of the citrus and peel off their skins into a big bowl, I'll get to work making simple syrup," I instructed her.

"What's that?"

"Equal parts sugar and water. A classic punch like this does better with pure sugar, but it's easier for me to measure mentally with syrup." She stared at me blankly. Then she shook her head.

"Whatever." Wynnie turned to go to the kitchen, presumably to get the citrus. I followed, hoping to start on the syrup. My part wouldn't take long. It wasn't like the stuff needed to remain over a flame or required close watching. Within an hour, we'd peeled all the lemons, limes, oranges, and grapefruits that she had. There weren't many, but there was enough to provide flavor to the punch. I tossed some sugar into the bowl with the citrus peels and mashed it up with a wooden spoon.

The sugar would draw out the oils and make a very flavorful syrup; it was the sort of thing that only cocktail nerds and tenured bar folk would know about. All I had to do was let it rest as long as possible. Meanwhile, Wynnie squeezed as much juice as she could out of the fruits. I started the fire on her woodstove and got it to a roughly workable temperature. She seemed impressed that I could do so.

"It's just a fire," I said with a shrug.

"Easy for you to say," she grumbled. Jealousy clouded her voice, and she kept stealing glances over to watch how I tended the heat. Clearly, this was a skill she hadn't cultivated yet. I started by mixing sugar and water in roughly equal proportions, going a bit heavy on the sugar, since simple syrup is measured out by weight, not volume. Even without a scale, I figured my eyeballing would get me close. I'd done it enough times, after all. Also, I literally couldn't make the liquor any worse.

Nothing boosted confidence like starting with an unbelievably low bar. Then, I gathered all the remaining liquor bottles from the bar shelf and brought them into the kitchen. One by one, I uncorked them, smelled them, and judged whether they'd be fit for use. I threw only one of the bottles away, despite the protests of Wynnie. The liquid at the bottom had nearly solidified into a strange, dark syrup. Actually, it was closer to a gel, and maybe a few weeks of growth short of gaining sentience.

The mildew on the outside of the bottle was probably safer to ingest than the inky black contents inside. One by one, each bottle I opened went into a giant steel mixing bowl. The contents blended together, with dark turbulence quickly turning a hazy, muddy brown. When the bowl was more than halfway full, I mixed the liquor with the citrus and syrup. Wynnie leaned over my shoulder, trying to take a peek at what I was stirring up.

Her body pressed against my back, just lightly, but enough to send a faint buzz of excitement through me. The touch was so casual, yet somehow intimate. I barely wanted to move, afraid to disturb the contact. It wasn't like I was head over heels for the elf or anything, but that also didn't make her any less attractive.

"Is it ready?" Her breath brushed against my neck, somehow cool and hot at the same time. It felt like she'd just munched up an entire mouthful of breath mints.

"Not quite yet. I'm about to add in the oleo saccharum."

"Excuse me?"

"The peels and sugar," I said, remembering that the term oleo saccharum would've been weird to most people even back on Earth.

"Sweet oil."

"You could've just said peels and sugar. It's fewer syllables." I counted them out on my hand. Whatever. It wasn't quite the same, since the oleo saccharum actually referred to the oil and sugar mixture, not the peels. Neither of us needed to suffer my particular brand of pedantry, though. Finally, I mixed in the peels that had been macerating in sugar. Heavy globs of sugary oils blended into the rest of the liquid. Almost immediately, the already cloudy mixture became nearly opaque with the suspended fats.

"This looks horrible," Wynnie commented.

"Yeah, well, did you see what it was made with?"

"The bad part of the citrus?" I shook my head.

"The bad part of every distillery. That liquor deserves a worse death than this."

"And now what? We just drink it?"

"More or less. Actually, we'll want to water this down a bit, then serve it over ice." Wynnie muttered something about how this was all a big waste of time and resources, but she fetched us a couple of glasses and a carafe of water. Eyeballing the amount of water to add, I just made sure that it wasn't so strong that we couldn't turn a reasonable profit through volume. Then, I had Wynnie conjure up ice cubes for us. Except that they weren't ice cubes. It was just one big cube. A block, if you will.

"Any chance you have a Lewis bag?" I asked.

"Or a mallet?" She rolled her eyes. Again, I was using terms that most people wouldn't know—in our world or hers. I probably could have asked for an ice pick or an awl, but I was committed now.

"It's just a canvas bag. I need something to break up this ice into smaller chunks. I don't know why they even call it a Lewis bag." Wynnie tapped her chin thoughtfully.

"I have a burlap sack somewhere. I use it for carrying laundry. Will that work?" This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon. I nodded. It would have to do. I could just turn it inside out if it was funky. As for the mallet, I figured I could just whack the bag against the ground until everything broke up. I was Reborn, after all. The isekai protagonist of my own slice of life story.

I was supposed to be a genius in this world, bringing secrets, techniques, and untold ingenuity. Maybe I wouldn't save the day against the Black Ship Raiders, but I could figure out how to break apart some ice into smaller chunks for a drink. Not all heroes wear capes. When we had enough ice to fill our cups, I ladled a bit into each of our vessels and raised a glass for a toast. Again, eyeballing and estimating, it was probably about a standard shot of alcohol. Maybe a shot and a half.

"Is this all we get?"

"Yeah. It should be plenty. Why?"

"If we're serving watered-down alcohol, we might as well treat it like ale and give them a full flagon." I laughed.

"Wynnie, I'm going to need you to trust me on this. Don't drink too much."

"Why? Because it'll eat into our profits?"

"Because it'll fuck you up." With that, we clinked glasses and drank.

Wynnie was sitting on my lap.

"Am I sitting on your lap?" she slurred. I blinked. The room spun slowly, then snapped back to center when I reopened my eyes. The tan elf's thick thighs pressed into mine. One arm was curled around my neck, helping her hang on and not fall to the floor. Her breath was cool and citrusy, and not without a strong hint of highly questionable alcohol.

"Why, I believe you are, m'lady." M'lady? I'm in a fantasy world for one day, and I'm saying m'lady? Jeez. Had I been in this world long enough to grow a neck beard? I thought only dudes with fedoras said that right before writing misogynistic comments to OnlyFans performers on Twitter. Or hey, maybe my roleplaying chops were shining through. Wynnie adjusted herself slightly. Somehow, it brought boob right to my clavicle. Apparently, in fantasy worlds, women didn't wear bras. I could feel its heft.

"Oh! Should I get off?"

"If you want to get off, staying on my lap is certainly one way to do it," my mouth said before I could shut it up.

"You sassy boy! Here, let's see if it works," Wynnie said, giggling mischievously. She ground her backside into my crotch. It was gentle enough not to crush my balls, but robust enough to make my cock wake up even in its drunken state.

"Oh! It appears that little Drew is finally joining us!"

"He's not that little," I protested.

"You'll have to prove it," Wynnie said. Her voice dropped an octave. She made eye contact so deep I thought she'd bore right through my skull like a handful of metal dice. Suddenly, it felt surprisingly hot in the inn. We'd closed the door and barely started a fire in the hearth in case any guests came. Then, we'd shared a second glass of punch. I knew the second glass was a mistake. I'd always had an issue with alcohol. One drink didn't do anything to me. A second drink made everything feel cozy.

It also turned off the sensible part of my brain that told me to stop at two. Since the second, I'd stopped counting. I glanced over at the steel mixing bowl that held our questionable concoction. To my great relief, I could still see a healthy level of punch in there, even at our angle. A bit of quick mental math and extreme estimation suggested that we'd probably had six or seven glasses of punch each.

The ABV wasn't listed on any of the bottles—go figure—but I assumed that early distilleries weren't in the process of watering down their alcohol for mass market the way most did on Earth. Likely, everything I'd put into the punch was cask strength. Really, I should have realized that earlier.

"What did you call this nectar of the gods, anyway? Spunk?" I laughed, then hiccuped.

"Punch."

"Oh, I get it! Because it hits you, right?"

"Shit, I don't know. Sounds likely to me." I hiccuped again. Wynnie was gorgeous. That loose, tousled, brown hair and those big doe eyes got me. Ugh. And those freckles! She looked so incredibly innocent and cute. That was only compounded by the fact that she had the most adorable curses ever. Yet for somebody who appeared wholesome and G-rated, she was still grinding absentmindedly against my crotch.

"Hey, um, I don't want to make things awkward, but I can't help but notice that you're still on my lap."

"Is this inappropriate? I never know how to act around people."

"Honestly, I'm not sure if it's appropriate. I don't really know the customs in this world. Where I'm from, on Earth, what we're doing would be appropriate—""—Oh, good!"

"—If we were, um, courting. I mean, if we were attracted to each other, flirting, and interested in each other romantically." Her grinding stopped. She looked at me, surprised. It was as though she hadn't even considered how our situation could be interpreted. In an instant, the air around us felt chilly. I wondered if she was using her powers, or if that was just the warm fuzzies disappearing from the scene. She tensed.

"Does it really look like I'm flirting?"

"Yeah? I mean, yeah," I stammered.

"Well, from where I'm seated, it looks like you're flirting too. So, Mr. Big Shot, Fancy Pants Reborn, dost thou flirt?" I swallowed audibly. Apparently, this question was on me. I was in the driver's seat.

"I think I do, yeah." She shifted in my lap to face me better. It seemed the situation called for a bit more honesty, since we were now nearly facing heart to heart.

"In your own world, were you single? Or were you not?"

"I was single."

"Why is that?" I let out an uneasy sigh. There were a lot of answers to that question, and I'd practiced most of them in various situations and for different audiences. My parents understood one version of the truth, and my friends might have heard another. For now, though, this was a clean slate. I wanted to be honest with Wynnie, and also give myself the opportunity to be honest for myself. Besides, I was borderline drunk. That was always when the truth came out.

"Bartenders don't have good reputations for dating. In fact, the general advice is for people to avoid dating bartenders altogether."

"Why is that?"

"How much time you got?" I let out a humorless laugh and took a deep breath. No reason to hide anything now.

"Typically, bartenders work bad hours. We start late in the day, and we end even later. There's very little overlap between our work schedule and that of other people."

"So you go to bed late. So what?"

"Not just late. We're just closing down work when other people are waking up to go in."

"Is that all? It's just a question of timing?"

"I wish. We're also people who tend towards indulgence. We drink more than is healthy, spend our money on food rather than our future, and don't necessarily make the healthiest choices. Sometimes, doing so is a professional necessity."

"Well, I love indulgence, so you're not scaring me off yet." I had to admire the grit and determination of the girl. Here I was, trying to warn her away from me, and she was doubling down. She was either very brave or very stupid. Yet although she had made a few bad decisions professionally, she didn't actually strike me as stupid. I wasn't done painting a horrible self portrait yet, though.

"There's one last indulgence I didn't mention. We make more money if we're charming." That wasn't as direct as it could have been. I was talking around my point, hoping she'd get it. She smiled at me, proving that she, too, was rather charming. How had she not made money off of that smile yet?

"You're telling me that your charm is practiced?" I wobbled my head.

"A bit, yeah. Natural charm can only take you so far."

"So you're telling me you're just faking it?" She leaned in closer until I could smell the scent of soap on her skin.

"I don't care if you're not actually charming if you can fake it well enough." I laughed.

"So, that's the thing, actually. Charming bartenders meet a lot of people. And I mean a lot. Not only that, but the people we meet are typically young, relatively inexperienced, and they've usually had a couple of drinks." She rubbed her chin thoughtfully, then draped her other arm around my neck, holding me in a loose hug. Her head rolled forward slightly, nearly colliding with mine. Obviously, she'd had a few drinks as well. She was a case study in exactly what I was talking about.

Unfortunately, I wasn't sure she got the gist of the implications.

"So you're saying a lot of hot, young people with lowered inhibitions throw themselves at you?" So, she did get the gist. I knew she was smart.

"It doesn't hurt that bartenders have a strange air of authority in restaurants. People trust us. We understand drinks in ways they don't. We have the power to stop serving them or kick them out if we need to. Customers want to stay on our good side." She rested her head on my shoulder and spoke into my neck. Her hot breath almost tickled. I felt my chest begin to warm again.

"So you like to eat and drink, you go to bed late, and you've slept around?"

"Yeah, that's about the long and short of it."

"Goodness gracious. That sounds really hot." My heart skipped a beat.

"What?"

"I'm just saying, that sounds really hot." It felt kind of like the first time I did whip-its. The world around me seemed to wave, breathing in and out on its own. For a second, I completely spaced out. Did she suggest that not only was the life of a bartender not a dealbreaker, but also a draw? I shook my head. I'd heard all of this before. The allure of dating a bartender drew in many people. The reality spit them out just as quickly.

"Anyway," I concluded, "bartending is fun, but it's a lot of hard work, bad hours, and it doesn't pay quite so much that someone can build a respectable life from it. Unfortunately, it means that a lot of people think it's fun to date us briefly, but our relationships quickly fall apart." It sounded like I was trying to stop her, but I couldn't help but notice that my hand was higher on her thigh than it had been just a moment ago.

"That's so sad," she pouted, her lips smearing a humid trail across my jaw.

"Honestly, it's pretty fucking lonely." Whoops. There it was. My bitterness came out. Few things were less attractive than bitterness.

"If I were on your Earth, I would help you not be lonely," she murmured.

"Too late. Now I'm stuck here instead."

"You're right! You get a fresh start. Maybe you don't have to be lonely after all." She picked her head up and searched my face for something. I couldn't tell what it was. She was too close for my eyes to focus. Then, just like that, she found what she was looking for. She leaned in. Her lips caressed mine softly. Slowly. They were more full and plump than I expected, and every bit as giving. In the back of my head, alarm bells rang. She was drunk. I was drunk.

I swore I'd never get into a situation like this again. Too often, I'd rushed into relationships full of hope and liquid courage. And almost as often, I'd rushed right back out, fully sober and filled with regret. But goddamn, she was hot. And things were going to be different here, right?