“I have to try that.”
“One old-fashioned coming up.” He bent to grab a glass and a bottle. “I’ll even make it with my line of bourbon.” He splashed in the bourbon.
“I bought a bottle of Copper Summit once.” I pressed my lips together, debating whether to tell him the rest. “It was yours. Spiced Summit.”
He paused. “Yeah?”
“It was after you bit my head off.” I waved a hand when the tortured look entered his eyes. “I was angry, and I thought what better way to get back at you than to use your line of bourbon for something other than drinking. That’d really get you back.”
The glass container of candied orange slices was abandoned as he leaned both hands on the counter. “All I’m hearing is that you were obsessed with me.”
I gasped and then broke down laughing. “No.” I failed at denying it. Teller had that draw. Even if I wanted to hate him, I had to work really hard at it.
His grin didn’t fade as he continued making my drink, shaking a dash of bitters in. “So what else would you do with bourbon other than drink it?”
“Vanilla extract.”
He stopped to think, his gaze distant. “That’s how Mama makes hers.”
“It’s really good. The bourbon adds this super subtle caramel flavor to vanilla buttercream frosting.” I shook my head. “Sorry. I tend to geek out about all things baking. Anyway, when I was really upset with Mom or Scott, I would make them something that used at least two teaspoons of that vanilla extract.”
The glass was slid in front of me. “You can geek out.”
“Sure.” I took a sip. The caramel notes I had loved from his line played over my tongue, mellowed by the bitters, then followed by the faintest spice and sweet citrus. Bourbon flavored my mouth, as rich and bold as the man in front of me.
“You more than like baking.” His hands were planted on the counter again. It was just the two of us, but the bar could be full and I’d still feel like I was the only one in the room.
“I do enjoy it.”
He tilted his head. “You more than enjoy it.”
I pushed the menu toward him. “This isn’t therapy. You need a drink too.” I had bared so much of myself already. I couldn’t be the only one stripping themselves down.
He slid the menu back, keeping his fingers on it as he leaned in. “I’ll make myself something you want to try.”
“The lemonade.” I took another drink. Dang, it was good.
“Which one?”
I set the glass down. “You have more than one?”
“It’s summer, but Scarlett’s hard cherry lemonade is a popular choice.”
“Oh. Um...” I read the description of both and let out a dramatic gasp. “You don’t source the Maraschino cherries locally?”
“It’s our one fault.” He dug out two glasses, both a highball. “I’ll make both.”
Since I wanted to try both, I didn’t argue. He made smaller amounts than what was shown in the pictures on the menu.
“Oh god, that blackberry one is good.”
He nodded. “People who aren’t a fan of bitters like the bourbon-and-fruit cocktails.”
I took a long pull from the hard cherry lemonade. “That would be perfect on a hot day with shortbread cookies.”
“What would go well with the blackberry one?”
I took another sip and let the flavors sit on my tongue. The sweet and sometimes tartness of the blackberries parried with the bourbon and lemonade. “Hmm...” Images of desserts danced through my head as I took another long pull. “Cobbler. But not one that’s too sickly sweet. Raspberry maybe?”
