Shep snatches the bag off the counter, and we take off as if we just robbed the place.
“Good going, kid. The cops will be at my door in an hour, and you can forget about seeing me around Briggs in the fall. I’m sure they’ll revoke my campus privileges by midnight.”
“Relax. You’re not a real professor. You’re an impostor.”
He shakes his head, shooting that signature cocky grin my way. “And you’re a pistol.”
We pick up Chinese takeout just the way I predicted—fine, I might haveinsisted, but only because the alternative was a grease pit of a drive-through. And soon enough, we’re seated on his navy sofa, comfortable as a cloud in heaven, quasi-snuggling up while watching that wall-to-wall screen that hardly qualifies as a mere television.
“So, what comes first—the chicken or the egg?” I say, putting down a carton of Kung Pao Shrimp.
He chews his barbeque pork bun in haste and washes it down with a bottle of water. “Depends. Which one am I?”
“Funny. I mean the murder investigation or the liquor. Do you want to do a quick info exchange, or are you up for trying to perfect my hot honey recipe for the bar?”
“Hot honey?” He shovels in another forkful of fried rice.
“Yeah, you know, the drink those toasted brides were clamoring for. Or at least one of them.” And that one would be Belinda’s sister. Belinda is the yoga instructor down at the gym, but I’m not up for revealing that tidbit of info just yet.
“Ah yes, the bitter brides.” His brows dip into a hard V, and he looks that much more scrumptious. Damn Shep for being himself. “So that’s what the honey is for. And here I thought you were going to lick my bits.”
I swat him on the arm reflexively. “Shut up and take me to the liquor, Professor Collins.”
Shep leads the way to his state-of-the-art stainless wonder of a kitchen. He’s already determined the fact this place isn’t technically his. As soon as he put the key into the lock, instead of saying something warm and inviting likewelcome to my abode, he grunted—Don’t stain the carpet.It’s a rental. He’s gracious that way.
He takes each bottle out of the bag with care and lays them out in a line. Without waiting for an invite, I rummage through his cabinets until I stumble upon a sea of wineglasses. I yank out six and land them gently onto the pale granite next to Shep’s new hard liquor collection.
“Those are wineglasses,” he says, laboring momentarily to open the scotch. “We’re not having wine.”
“I don’t care. They’re pretty, and I want to drink out of them. Don’t be such a wineglass snob.”
“Fine. There’s O.J. in the fridge. Knock yourself out.” He lands a finger’s length of the brown fluid into a glass and takes a sniff. “Heaven.”
“I’ve got news for you, Shep-who’s-about-to-put-a-pep-in-his-step—I’m forgoing all citrus-based liquids this fine evening.” I pull the honey out of the bag and quickly work it open. “I bet it’ll taste better with this.” I pour an inch into my glass and help myself to the scotch and do the same. Just as I’m about to lift the glass to my mouth, Shep is quick to swipe it and take a sip for himself.
His lips redefine themselves in every adorable shape, and my own mouth is instantly drawn to his. “Needs to be stirred.”
“Fine,” I grunt as I scrounge around and come up with a couple of spoons. “You can have that one. I’m trying this.” I pull forward some pear liqueur that looks candy sweet and ready to eat all on its own. Before you know it, I’ve concocted six different recipes—each with the same measure of honey. Two with mixed drinks, whiskey and rum, and rum and pear liquor in addition to the unadulterated samples. I’m careful to stir each one like a seasoned mixologist, and Shep comes along behind me sneaking a sip, smacking his lips as if he were a cocktail connoisseur. And once I’m through, I totally do the same.
“Whoa,” he moans, annoyed. “You’re not allowed to get wasted.”
“Why?” I bat my lashes over the rim of my glass and dip my tongue seductively into the liquor. “You afraid I’m going to lick your bits?”
His features darken, his lids weigh heavy, and if I were a betting girl, I’d wager he was looking forward to just that.
“I’m afraid you’re going to get sloshed and try to lick your own bits. There’s no way I’m taking you back to Briggs three sheets to the wind.”
“First—lucky for you, there’s no human way for me to reach my bits in the disgusting manner you just insinuated. And second—I’m pretty sure I can hold my liquor.” I take a giant gulp and gag and sputter my way through it. Confession: I can in no way hold my liquor, but there’s hardly anything in these glasses. I’m sure I’ll be just fine.
“Easy, girl.” He pats my back, and his thick cologne suddenly offers up my senses a warm hug. “I think you proved your point.” He gingerly extracts the glass from my grasp, and I happily snap up the next.
I take a quick sip and shudder my way through it. “Bleh!” I gag as the word expels from me. “Definitely not that one. What makes it taste like nail polish remover?”
“That would be the liquor, sweetie.”
“Oh.” I grimace as I glare down at my next brown solvent victim. “I’m sure I’ll like this one better.” It’s the pear liquor, and I made sure to put extra honey in this one. I take a sip and retch at the top of my lungs.
“Hey.” He lifts the glass right out of my hands and jumps out of the way as if I’m about to unload my dinner on him, and the way my stomach is boiling with anger, it’s not off the table.
