by Rose, Katia
On behalf of all indies, THANK YOU for your support!
-Katia
Acknowledgments
I’ll be honest: this one was a doozy to write (and yes, I am octogenarian-like enough to use the word ‘doozy.’) Glass Half Full was a difficult story to get down on paper not only because it was what eventually brought me out of my longest writing slump to date, but because it tackles some subjects that were (and still are) a struggle for me in my own life. That’s why I’m filled with even more gratitude than usual for you, the reader, and the time and space you’ve made for this book. Whether you’ve been waiting for this story for as many months as it took me to write it or you’re jumping on the Barflies bandwagon for the very first time, knowing this book still has an audience to support it after all it took to bring it to life is an extremely gratifying and humbling thing. I know how much of a gift your reading time is, and I will always receive that gift with the recognition and appreciation it deserves.
I have an incredible team of new and returning betas to thank this time around: Sue, Anna, Angie, Jen, Tori, Cat, Mimi, and Kirsten (how am I lucky enough to have EIGHT fabulous betas?) You all brought your A game to your critiquing, and I can’t imagine what I would have done without each and every one of you. I think we can all admit this story was more than a little rough around the edges when I passed it off to you, and you more than helped smooth and polish it into what it is today. Your dedication, insight, honesty, humor, and encouragement kept me going through the long days of edits, and you have helped me turn this book into something I am truly proud of. For that, I can’t thank you enough.
To my blogger and ARC team babes—I say this every time, but I’ll say it again: the book world would not be what it is without you. There’s wouldn’t even be a book world without you. You are what creates the sense of community and support that is so integral to all of us and makes this industry about so much more than just writing and reading books. You’re the heart and soul and sexy booty of the romance world, and on behalf of all authors, I want to say with complete and total sincerity: we could not do this without you. KEEP ON SHINING, YOU RADIANT FIREFLIES OF BEAUTY AND JOY.
There are so many fellow authors I want to thank for motivating me, inspiring me, supporting me, and poking me with sticks when I needed some extra incentive to keep going. I am lucky enough to work among the most incredible group of peers and ‘coworkers’ in the world, and while there is not enough space here to name all of you, please know what an impact you’ve had and how excited I am to see where we all end up next.
My family and ‘outside world’ friends have been an increasingly important pillar of support for my work as a romance author. As I open up about something I was initially so secretive about, I am continuously overwhelmed by the encouragement and enthusiasm I find. If you’re reading this, I hope you know just how much that means to me and also, depending on who you are, how it kind of makes me replay every sex scene in my books in my head and freak out a little bit.
To my bestieeeee: Eva, I am so lucky to have a friend who has been through so much with me for so long and to have the opportunity to make you feel cool by putting you in the acknowledgements of a book. You are, after all, Eva the Cool, and don’t you forget it!
Sport—you know there’s too much more to say than I can fit on this page, so I will just go with this: every day with you (and Cornelia) is a gift. I wish I could give you all the Chobani in the world.
Up Next
The Bar Next Door
Sometimes you take the shot, and sometimes the shot takes you.
As the manager of Montreal’s most infamous dive bar, Monroe—and it’s just Monroe, thank you very much—is used to serving up her signature pearls of wisdom alongside an array of shots, pints, and pitchers. In fact, she thrives on it. Taverne Toulouse is a mighty ship, and she its fearless captain, trusted by patrons and bar staff alike to steer them through choppy waters.
If only she’d been given a little warning before a full-on tsunami swept in next door.
Julien Valois’ wining and dining empire is making waves. The next item on his agenda is opening a trendy lounge right next to Monroe’s beloved Taverne Toulouse—one that’s meant to run the dive bar out of business so he can buy up that property too.
His plans did not include falling for a five-foot-nothing brunette with an impressive vocabulary and an even more impressive ability to manhandle drunk frat boys twice her size.
They’re rivals in every sense of the word, but when Monroe and Julien are in a room together, the battle lines fade away. Their defences lower, their hearts get louder than their heads, and the burn between them goes down like just the right shot—intense, intoxicating, and able to sweep their priorities away with a single taste.
Until reality decides to slap up a big ‘For Sale’ sign and force them remember those priorities all too clearly.
Read on for a free excerpt from Katia Rose’s next romantic comedy.
One
Monroe
HEAD RETENTION: A beer’s ability to maintain its foam head for a measurable amount of time before collapse
“I’m really sorry, Kayla, but we’re going to have to let you go.”
I try not to wince as I watch my employee’s face crumple like a failed soufflé.
“We’ve really loved having you here,” I continue, feeling like I’m making a pathetic it’s-not-you-it’s-me speech to a soon to be ex-boyfriend. Letting staff members go is ten times harder than any breakup I’ve ever been through—and no, I’m not going to reflect on what that says about my past relationships. “You’ve been an awesome employee, and this was a really hard decision to make. Sales just aren’t high enough for me to keep this many staff members now that the holidays are over, and you’re our newest hire. I promise I wouldn’t be doing this unless I had to.”
Kayla bobs her head and swallows. I hope she’s not about to cry. If she cries, I’m totally going to give her the job back, or at least send her home with a bottle of whiskey this bar can’t afford to part with anymore than it can afford to keep paying her.
“Your official last day will be two weeks from now, but if you have to leave earlier, that’s completely fine.” I’m giving the two weeks as a courtesy, but even that’s pushing the limits of our finances. I rifle through the papers on my cluttered excuse for a desk and hand her one tucked into an envelope. “I got this ready for you. It’s a reference letter, and you can feel free to give my name and the bar’s number to anyone you apply with. If you want, I can pass your name onto some other managers.”
Please take the hint, Kayla. Please don’t make me admit that not even angelic cherubs sent from on high could pull two weeks’ pay for you out of their asses if they descended on this bar right now.
She manages a thin smile as she accepts the envelope. “That would be great, actually, and I understand why you have to let me go.”
I smile back at her. “Like I said, I wouldn’t be doing this if it weren’t my last resort.”
She gets up off the stool I keep in here for the rare occasions I need to a have a sit down chat with my employees and pauses at the door.
“I just want to say that I’ve really liked working here. You’re the first boss I’ve ever had that I’ve actually, um, liked.” Her cheeks go pink. “Is that unprofessional? I didn’t mean to talk shit about my other bosses. Oh damn, I just said ‘shit.’ I’m sorry. I’m fucking this up. Oh, shit! I said fuck. Wait, I mean—”
She cuts herself off and clamps a hand over her mouth, blushing harder by the minute.
“This is not a PG rated institution, Kayla,” I inform her with a laugh. “You don’t have to apologize for dropping accidental F-bombs around me, especially when you’ve just lost your job. Honestly, I think that’s the least profanity I’ve ever encountered when letting someone go.”
She lets out a nervous giggle and drops her hand from her mouth.
“Have a good night, Kayla.”
“Thank
s, Monroe. You too.”
She gingerly closes the door to my office—if you can even call this converted broom closet an office—and I slouch back in my chair before letting out a sigh. I hate firing people. In my opinion, it’s the worst part of being a manager. I could complain about the long hours, the never ending scheduling conflicts, or the customers who make the dreaded demand of, ‘I want to speak to the manager,’ but I’ve always seen that as part of the job description. The disappointment of people who’ve trusted, admired, and worked hard for me—just not quite hard enough, or in Kayla’s case, just not at the right time—is never easy enough to pass off as ‘part of the job.’ Those crestfallen faces haunt me like the Ghost of Christmas Past.
I’ve been reading too many Victorian novels lately, I tell myself as I imagine Jacob Marley floating through the door to rattle his chains at me and tell me off for sending a poor, helpless girl out into the cold.
Kayla is neither poor nor helpless. She’s a university student who works part time to afford a social life, and in all likelihood, she’ll have another job by the end of the week.
I still feel bad.
I start shifting through the papers on my desk to sort out what I need to take home with me tonight. The storage closet I managed to shove a chair and tiny desk into doesn’t have room for a filing cabinet, so my office always looks like an explosion of stationary supplies. I have a few baskets and folders to try to keep things in check, but my shifts here are usually a mad dash between the front of house, back of house, delivery door, and whatever last-minute manager errands I need to run. I periodically poke my head in here to toss receipts inside and let them land where they may. Cleaning up is a futile effort.
I’ve just about got my things packed when the door gets thrown open so hard it bangs against the drywall.
“Esti de câlice de tabarnak, it’s dead in here tonight!” exclaims a very loud Québécois accent as the girl emitting it yanks the stool out from where Kayla set it aside and plops herself down. “Comment ҫa va avec toi, putain?”
In contrast to Kayla, DeeDee doesn’t show any qualms over tossing out half the expletives in the French Canadian dialect before asking me the equivalent of, ‘What’s up, you whore?’
In fact, nearly everything about DeeDee is a direct contrast to Kayla. The term ‘shame’ is a foreign concept to her; the only thing about DeeDee that’s ever turned pink is the current bubblegum shade of her hair. She’s the kind of person who’d show up at a funeral with a case of vodka coolers and a piñata in an effort to ‘liven things up.’ While she’s not the friend who’ll sit and cry with you over your ex, she is the friend who’ll pull your head out of your bag of Cheetos, make you put something pretty on, and whisk you away to the kind of night where you’re eating pancakes at 3AM and at least one of you has lost a shoe somewhere.
If Kayla has a sunny disposition, then DeeDee is goddamned solar flare.
She’s also an excellent bartender and professional party starter, but not even her spontaneous dance routines on the bar have been enough to up our income lately.
“I just let Kayla go,” I announce.
DeeDee twists on the stool to face the general direction of the bar and lifts her hand in a salute. “Adieu, little friend.”
“Please tell me you never actually called her that to her face.”
She shrugs. “That’s what I call everyone you ask me to train, and I get them to call me Mamma DeeDee.”
“I really hope you’re joking.”
She inspects her nails in response.
I love this girl all the way from her weirdly round toes to the sprinkle of freckles that dusts her nose—yeah, I’m a poet, and I know it—but sometimes being her boss feels like wrangling a wild steer.
“I’m heading out now, Mamma DeeDee,” I inform her. “I sent Kayla home already, so against my better judgement, it’s just you and Zach on close tonight.”
She perks up like a puppy who just got called over for a cuddle. “But Zachy Zach loves me!”
“I know. That’s the problem.”
She makes a face. “Don’t be gross, Monroe. He doesn’t like me like that.”
I don’t know if she actually believes that’s true or if she’s just being wilfully blind, but the heart of our sweet and adorably gallant server Zachary has clearly been resting in DeeDee’s hands since sometime within the first five minutes he met her. The problem is that he is so not her type. He’d be way better for her than the usual asshats with attitude problems she dates, but she shuts the conversation down every time I bring it up. Watching him hopelessly pine after her is a little bit cute, a little bit sad, and a little bit bad for overall employee relations.
“Just...be gentle with him,” I instruct, “and unless we get some miracle rush, close the place at ten.”
“Ten?” DeeDee repeats. “Voyons, là! I’m not making any money these days.”
“I’m sorry. If it’s any consolation, no one else is either. I’ve had to cut everyone’s hours down. I’m hardly billing any of my own hours just to avoid firing anyone else.”
She reaches over to place a hand on my arm and squeezes. “Hey, ma belle, ҫa va. We’re gonna make a comeback, okay? It’s always dead at this time of year, mais l’été s’en vient.”
Summer is on the way.
That’s the same promise I’ve been holding onto, repeating it like a mantra every time another load of snowfall keeps our customers tucked up at home or huddled in bars with better locations. Even in the high season, it takes something special to lure the students all the way up here past Mont-Royal Station, and usually we are something special: cheap appetizers in the evening, cheap drinks all night long, good DJs with good music, and a party that doesn’t quit until the lights come on.
It’s not the kind of bar I went to as a student—I was more the ‘dusty Irish pub where I can work on my literature assignments’ sort of girl—but this place is weirdly infectious. We’re a staple of student life, a rite of passage before graduation. We’re supposed to be one of those bars you just have to try.
“It’s never been dead like this,” I admit to DeeDee. “I keep checking the books, and we’re way behind on any other year. The owner is on my ass to pull my shit together, or else—”
“The owner can eat a bag of dicks,” DeeDee interrupts. “You’re the best boss ever, and I will get all up in his ugly yeule and tell him to shut it.”
“Well thank you for that assessment, DeeDee. I appreciate it.”
I squeeze her hand where it’s still gripping my arm and then reach for my purse on the floor. DeeDee gets up, and we kiss each other on both cheeks before she heads off to dump her stuff in the back and get ready for her shift.
When it’s busy, I use the staff entrance to leave, but it’s a lot more convenient to go through the main doors out onto Avenue Mont-Royal. I pause in front of the brass taps behind the perpetually sticky wooden bar top and stare out at the familiar view of my kingdom: Taverne Toulouse.
This place has gone through several looks since it opened in 2001, and the decorations have all been layered on top of one another throughout the years. The original dark leather man cave atmosphere is still detectable under the hipster-era additions of vintage chandeliers, quirky table lamps, and repurposed piping now used as shelving units. An entire wall devoted to graffiti and signatures bears testimony to the thousands of liquor-seeking souls who have wandered in here throughout the ages. There are a lot of penises scribbled on that wall, but there are also some genuinely thought-provoking works of artistry done in hasty sharpie strokes under the glow of the bar’s dim lights. I’ve lose track of time getting swept up in those cryptic messages of love and longing more times than I can count.
A few of our infamous posters grace the other walls, advertising deals on shots and pitchers with slogans like ‘What have you got Toulouse?’ and ‘You need Toulouse-en up.’ We have a small stage tucked away in a corner next to a DJ booth that faces a makeshift dance floor lined wi
th mismatched leather couches. The latest addition to the decor is a neon sign all the staff pitched in on to get me for Christmas. It’s hung over the door to the toilets and spells out, ‘Please don’t do coke in the bathroom.’
My employees like to make fun of the way I can storm in and singlehandedly throw a pack of inebriated frat boys out but still always manage to say please and thank you to even the most problematic of customers.
“Hey, boss. How’s it going?”
Zach comes out from the back with a load of freshly washed plastic pitchers in his arms and starts arranging them on a shelf underneath the bar. Honestly, I don’t know why DeeDee won’t give him a shot. It’s not like he isn’t handsome. He’s got this scruffy beard with sun-streaked dirty blond hair thing going on that makes him seem like some sort of wholesome farmer boy who could take you for a memorable romp in the hay.
Objectively speaking, of course. I’m smart enough not to hire men I have any kind of sexual tension with myself.
“It’s...going. Thanks for asking, Zach. How are you?”
“Superb,” he answers with a grin.
That’s one of his adorable Zach-isms: coming up with a different synonym for ‘good’ every time someone asks him how he’s doing.
“I let DeeDee know that I need you guys to close at ten if things don’t pick up. Sorry to cut your shift.”
He shrugs. “I understand. You’ve gotta do what you’ve gotta do. Not like I’m making much money off this crowd, anyway.”