Chapter 1: The Pretentious Asshole

Maya Chen stared up at the gilded sign reading "Driftwood Room" and fought the urge to turn around and walk straight back to her beaten-up Honda Civic. The valet parking attendants looked like they earned more in tips than she made in a week slinging drinks at Murphy's Dive.

"Fucking hell," she muttered under her breath, adjusting the strap of her worn leather messenger bag. The bag contained her basic bar tools—nothing fancy, nothing Instagram-worthy. Just the essentials that had gotten her through five years of making rent and chipping away at student loans for a psychology degree she'd never used.

The invitation had come through her manager, who'd received it from some food blogger who frequented Murphy's. "Rose City Invitational," they'd called it. A cocktail competition with a five-thousand-dollar prize that would cover three months of loan payments. Maya had said yes before reading the fine print about "artisanal spirits" and "molecular gastronomy techniques."

Now, standing in the marble-floored lobby of Portland's most pretentious cocktail lounge, she was seriously reconsidering her life choices.

The competition floor buzzed with nervous energy. Twenty bartenders—no, mixologists, she corrected herself with an internal eye roll—arranged their stations with the precision of surgeons. Maya scanned the room, taking inventory of her competition. Hipster beards, vintage suspenders, and more tattoos than a motorcycle rally. Everyone looked like they'd stepped out of a craft cocktail magazine.

She found her assigned station and nearly groaned out loud. Station twelve sat directly next to station eleven, which was occupied by the most insufferably perfect specimen of pretentious bartender she'd ever seen.

The man had dark hair slicked back with what was probably some artisanal pomade that cost more than her monthly MetroCard. His beard was trimmed with geometric precision, and his fitted black vest showcased arms covered in elaborate, artistic tattoos. He was arranging his tools with the focused intensity of a bomb defusal expert, each piece placed at exact right angles.

Maya dropped her bag onto her station with a deliberate thud. The sound echoed in the hushed, cathedral-like atmosphere of the competition floor.

The pretentious asshole looked up, and Maya felt an unwelcome jolt of electricity when their eyes met. His were dark brown, almost black, with an intensity that made her stomach do an annoying little flip. She immediately hated herself for noticing.

"Careful," he said, his voice low and smooth. "Some of us take this seriously."

Maya's eyebrows shot up. "Oh, I'm sorry. Did I disturb your feng shui?"

He straightened, and she couldn't help but notice how his vest stretched across his chest. Fuck. This was not the time for her body to remember it had been six months since her last hookup.

"It's about respect for the craft," he replied, returning to his meticulous arrangement. "Something you might not understand."

"The craft?" Maya laughed, the sound sharp in the refined space. "It's pouring liquid into a glass, not performing brain surgery."

His jaw tightened, and she caught the way his hands paused in their work. "That attitude explains why you're working at..." He glanced at her station setup dismissively. "Wherever it is you work."

"Murphy's Dive," she supplied cheerfully. "Best whiskey selection in Southeast Portland, and we don't charge twenty-two dollars for a Manhattan."

"I'm sure your customers appreciate the... authentic experience."

The way he said "authentic" made it sound like a disease. Maya felt heat rise in her cheeks—partly anger, partly something else she refused to acknowledge.

"At least my customers can pronounce what they're drinking," she shot back. "I bet you serve cocktails with names longer than most people's wedding vows."

A ghost of a smile flickered across his lips before disappearing. "Julian Reyes," he said, extending a hand. "And you are?"

"Maya." She shook his hand, ignoring the way his callused fingers felt against hers. Bartender hands. Real bartender hands, not the soft palms of someone who only worked private events for tech bros. "No last name for the competition?"

"Maya No-Last-Name," he said, and there was something in his tone that made her pulse quicken. "Interesting brand choice."

Before she could respond, a microphone crackled to life. The competition director, a woman in an expensive suit who looked like she'd never worked a rush shift in her life, began explaining the rules.

Maya half-listened, more focused on the way Julian's forearms flexed as he tested the weight of his shaker. His tattoos were actually beautiful—not the random collection of drunken decisions she was used to seeing, but a cohesive sleeve that looked like it had been planned by an actual artist.

She realized she was staring when he caught her looking.

"See something you like?" he asked quietly, leaning just close enough that she could smell his cologne—something expensive and subtle that made her want to step closer instead of backing away.

"Just wondering if any of those tattoos actually mean something, or if they're purely decorative," she replied, proud of how steady her voice sounded.

"They mean something." His eyes traveled down to where her own small tattoo peeked out from under her sleeve. "Unlike that little rebellion you've got there."

Maya's hand instinctively covered the small compass tattoo on her wrist—a impulse decision during her senior year that she'd never regretted until this moment.

"It's a compass," she said defensively.

"How original. Let me guess—it keeps you grounded? Helps you find your way?"

The fact that he was absolutely right made her want to throw something at his perfectly sculpted face. Instead, she smiled sweetly.

"It reminds me to always know which direction I'm headed when I need to get the hell away from pretentious assholes."

Julian's laugh was low and genuinely amused, transforming his face completely. For a moment, Maya forgot why she was supposed to hate him.

"Competitors, you have three hours to create three cocktails," the director announced. "One classic, one modern interpretation, and one original creation. Judging begins in five minutes."

Maya cracked her knuckles and reached for her basic shaker. Beside her, Julian was pulling out what looked like a laboratory setup—precision jiggers, specialized strainers, and bottles of bitters she'd never heard of.

"Compensating for something?" she asked, nodding toward his elaborate setup.

"Just using the right tools for the job," he replied, not looking up from his prep work. "Some of us believe in precision."

"And some of us believe in making drinks people actually want to drink."

The starting bell rang, and Maya dove into her prep work with practiced efficiency. She'd decided on a classic Old Fashioned, a modern take on a Moscow Mule with house-made ginger beer, and an original creation she'd been perfecting at Murphy's—a smoky whiskey cocktail she called "Last Call."

She worked with the speed and confidence of someone who'd served thousands of drinks under pressure. No wasted movements, no dramatic flair. Just solid, professional bartending.

Julian, meanwhile, was performing what looked like a chemistry experiment. He measured ingredients to the exact milliliter, used a torch to char something in a small pan, and was doing something with what appeared to be a tiny eyedropper.

"Jesus Christ," Maya muttered, watching him place a single, perfect drop of some amber liquid onto a foam garnish. "Are you making a cocktail or curing cancer?"

"I'm creating an experience," he replied, his focus entirely on his work. When he concentrated like this, his tongue darted out slightly to wet his lower lip, and Maya found herself staring at his mouth.

"The only experience your customers are getting is carpal tunnel from taking Instagram photos."

Julian's hands paused for just a moment. When he looked at her, there was something heated in his gaze that had nothing to do with anger.

"You know what your problem is?" he said, his voice low enough that only she could hear.

"Enlighten me."

"You're so busy being superior to everyone who takes this seriously that you can't see how good you actually are."

Maya's retort died in her throat. She hadn't expected that. Hadn't expected the way his words hit something vulnerable inside her chest.

"Don't," she said quietly.

"Don't what?"

"Don't try to psychoanalyze me. We're not friends. We're competitors."

"No," Julian said, his eyes locked on hers. "We're something else entirely."

The air between them suddenly felt thick, charged with an electricity that had nothing to do with competition and everything to do with the way he was looking at her like he wanted to devour her.

Maya forced herself to look away, focusing on her cocktails with renewed intensity. But she could feel Julian's presence beside her like a physical thing, could sense every movement he made, every breath he took.

This was bad. This was very, very bad.

And she couldn't wait to see what happened next.