Nick paused, then picked up the tumblers and handed her one. He looked exhausted, but he managed a small smile. “That was pedantic.”
“Says the pedant. And besides, I’m right. We had a good day, right? We got some great shots; we both picked up a bunch of new followers.”
Nick’s smile widened, and Carly was relieved—and, okay, a little aroused—to see a mischievous spark in his eyes. “We did have a good day.”
She took a sip of bourbon and stepped closer to him, near enough to brush a light kiss along the side of his neck. He groaned quietly and tipped his head, giving her more of the stubbly skin and the taut muscle beneath it. She kissed it again, her mouth open this time, and the sweat-salt taste of him mingled deliciously with the sweet bourbon.
“And the night’s not over, Nick,” she murmured against his skin. “We can turn it around.”
In response, he wrapped one arm around her waist and pulled her tight against him, making her breath catch in her throat. She nipped at the place she’d been kissing, and he groaned again, louder and darker, and the sound made her nipples tighten and ache.
“We’ve got work to do,” he said with a sigh.
“We can work later.” Carly ran her free hand up the back of his neck and slid her fingers into his hair, pulling his face down to hers.
“And piss Heather off? No, thank you,” he retorted, and she whimpered in frustration. She pulled away from him and looked at the bottles on the desk.
“For Heather,” she said, echoing his concession from earlier in the evening.
“For Heather. Let’s get to work.”
“Fine, fine.” Carly stepped backward, putting a few feet between them, and picked up a pen and notepad from the desk. The B&B’s stationery had a chubby little pony on it, naturally. “The wedding theme is kind of a mash-up of New York City and the beach. You saw the table signs. So, it’s kind of a cliché, but a Manhattan?”
“Two parts rye, one part vermouth, dash of bitters,” Nick nodded.
“How did you know that?” Carly liked a good cocktail every now and then, but she didn’t have their ingredients memorized.
“I know things,” Nick said after a pause. “But we don’t have rye.”
“I think if you’d bought one more kind of grain alcohol the guy behind the counter would have called for a welfare check.”
“Please, this is Australia. He would have reminded me to grab some rum.”
Carly laughed and took another step backward. They had work to do. The faster they got it done, the faster she could get back to exploring Nick’s neck with her mouth.
“Can we make a Manhattan with bourbon?”
“I don’t see why not. It would be sweeter, but maybe if we go easy on the vermouth?”
“Let’s try it. Bourbon is kind of southern, and Australia is the south. The deep, deep south. Like, get to Louisiana and keep going.”
Nick looked skeptical at her reasoning, but he reached for the vermouth and the bitters and eyeballed the measurements. She watched him carefully, taking in the movements of his fingers, the flexing muscles of his forearms and wrists. For scientific reasons, obviously. So they could recreate the recipe later.
“We’re supposed to add a cherry, so imagine there’s a cherry in here,” he said a moment later, handing her the tumbler full of rich red-brown liquid. “And it should be cold.”
“Got it,” Carly said, jotting down notes on the pad.2 Bourbon,3/4vermouth, dash bitters, cherry, cold.She took a sip and widened her eyes. “Holy crap, that’s good.”
As she watched, Nick took a slow sip of his creation, nodding thoughtfully as he savored the taste. She watched his mouth, biting her lip as he ran his tongue over his bottom lip. He watched her watching him, then repeated the movement with his tongue, and there went her nipples again. God, this man was a tease. How had she ever thought him uptight? He was playing with her. And he waswinning.
“How does it taste?” she asked, her voice huskier than she intended.
“Perfect,” he replied, downing the rest of the drink in two quick swallows. “You want more?”
Fuck yes, she did.
Nearly an hour later, they’d perfected the Deep South Manhattan—less vermouth and more bitters, to counteract the bourbon—and Carly’s handwriting had deteriorated significantly. She hoped she’d be able to read it in the morning.
“’Kay, ’kay, we got it, on to the next one,” she giggled. They were out of vermouth, anyway.
