A middle-aged guy with a gut that advertised his taste for his own wares slapped a beer mat on the bar in front of Nate. “What’ll it be?”

“Uh . . .” What was it that Seth had made him that first time? Nate had asked for it to be a dick, sort of—but it had backfired on him when Seth had made the best one he’d ever tasted. “Twelve Mile Limit.”

The bartender gave Nate the stink-eye. “Say what?”

“A Twelve Mile Limit. It’s a Prohibition era cocktail, named for—”

“Never heard of it.”

Interesting customer service technique. “The other bartender made one for me—with his own grenadine.”

“Maybe the other bartender gives a crap, him wanting to be a ‘master mixologist’ and all. How about a draft?”

Nate stared the guy down. “I want a Twelve Mile Limit. I’ve had it here before. If you don’t know how to make one, look it up.”

“Yeah, yeah.” The guy gave Nate a disgusted eyeroll and disappeared into the back—but not before he pulled drafts for three other customers. By the time he returned, those three customers were ready for another round. He set a murky cocktail down in front of Nate.

“Here. It’s on your head, though, ’cause you and I both know I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“Cheers to you too.” Nate took a sip and nearly gagged. It wasn’t on his head, but it was about to be all over the bar, because this thing was vile. Clearly this bartender didn’t take his job nearly as seriously as Seth did—nor did he care about making his customers happy, unless they were the type that just wanted the beer to keep coming at a steady pace without too much unnecessary chitchat.

Nate wasn’t brave enough to ask the guy to give it another try, so he tossed enough cash on the bar to cover the drink—and because he wasn’t a total asshole, included a nominal tip—then headed out the door.