The Executive Lounge is empty except for us. The room is all moody lighting, plush couches, and the faint, lingering scent of cigars. Sultry jazz oozes from the speakers, like it’s trying to seduce me.
It’s not like I’ve never been alone with him before. We’ve had countless one-on-one meetings. But there’s something about this clandestine bar vibe and the distinct lack of a desk or conference table between us that has me jittery. I feel like I’ve forgotten how to perform basic human functions like standing or breathing.
To my shock, Liam strides behind the bar, rolling up his sleeves with practiced ease. “What’s your poison?” he asks, his eyes roving over the top-shelf booze.
“You moonlighting as a bartender now?” I quip, trying to mask my sudden nervousness.
He’s already lining up an impressive array of spirits. “Picked up a trick or two in my pre-finance days.”
“Surprise me then.”
“All right. A fan of whisky, are you?”
“Only if it’s the good stuff.”
He chuckles. “I assure you, my taste is impeccable.”
“I never doubted that for a second.”
What in the ever-loving fuck is happening right now?
“Why don’t you get comfortable?” He nods toward a sleek leather sofa.
Comfortable might be a tad optimistic, but I perch myself on the very edge of it, trying to project an air of unflappable poise while Liam busies himself behind the impressively stocked bar.
He sets two tumblers down with a decisive clink. “This was voted the best whisky in the world last year. Hails from a distillery on the Isle of Skye.”
“Thanks.” I raise the glass for an experimental sip, needing the liquid fortification. Then immediately choke and splutter like I’ve just been punched in the throat by a fist made of pure ethanol. “That’s strong!”
“All right there?”
I nod frantically, trying to blink away the reflexive tears stinging my eyes. “Fine, I’m fine. I’m just not much of a whisky connoisseur. I couldn’t tell you if that was good or bad, but I know it’s burning me.”
He chuckles. “Give it a moment. Let it breathe. You’ll detect notes of crisp apple.”
“I can’t taste anything now my esophagus is melting.”
“I won’t tell my brother that. This particular malt is the pride and joy of his distillery.” He settles back against the sofa, his large thighs spreading in a relaxed sprawl as he takes a slow, maddeningly refined sip of his own drink.
I vaguely know about his younger brother by three years, Patrick McLaren, who owns a few hotels in the UK. Only because I went down a McLaren rabbithole one evening.
Turns out, Lucifer does have family. Obscenely attractive family, at that.
“Patrick’s opening a hotel on the Isle of Skye, right?”
Patrick McLaren is bloody gorgeous. The Scottish Isle of Skye has approximately twelve thousand people despite being the size of Manhattan. I guarantee every single woman on that island is conveniently waiting for that hotel to open. Practicing their “Oh, I just happened to be walking by” faces in the mirror.
“He is. Construction is nearing completion.”
“Have you been? I’ve always wanted to travel around Scotland.”
“I have and it’s breathtaking. Maybe you should take a holiday soon. See for yourself.” His statement seems weirdly loaded. For the thousandth time, I wonder what his angle is here.
I shift in my seat, trying to find a comfortable position on the soft leather. I take another sip of the whisky, chasing those elusive apples, and try not to grimace as it sears a fiery path down my throat.
“Relax, Gemma,” he rumbles. “You seem tense. Almost as if you’re not enjoying my company.”
I stiffen at his mocking tone. “Of course I enjoy your company.”
