“Okay,” Eddy shuts his binder with a slap. “Just go about the rest of your night, and the camera is going to follow you, okay?” he looks at her specifically, his eyebrows raised.
She smiles. “Of course,” she says politely.
Too politely.
“Well,” she says, turning in her seat to face me. “I’m going to make us a drink. What do you want?”
I don’t have to think. “How about a cherry old-fashioned?”
Amara looks to the bar, a smirk crossing her lips. “Coming right up.”
I turn myself so I can watch her as she goes to the kitchen, opening the fridge and grabbing the cherries she bought the other day. She carefully cuts a few of them in half, taking out the pits before bringing the small bowl over to the bar.
Splitting the cherries between two old-fashioned glasses, my girl adds her syrup, some lemon juice from the bar fridge, and muddies them together.
The movement is sexy. The way she knows exactly what she’s doing, as if she’s done it a million times. And she has.
But the idea of her making drinks for me feels more intimate.
Amara grabs a bottle of whiskey from the shelf, pouring it into the glasses before dropping one of the large ice cubes from my molds in the freezer.
Finally, Amara picks up one of the whole cherries, making sure I see her as she bites the fruit off the stem. And with a smirk, the woman places the stem on her tongue and, in a few expert moves, produces a perfectly tied cherry stem.
Only one.
She doesn’t do a second one. No, that would make it a little less special, wouldn’t it?
Instead, with a mischievous look, she drops it in my drink.
“Here you go,” she says with a wink, taking a seat way too close to me.
I don’t take my eyes off of her as I take a sip, letting the alcohol rest on my tongue. “This is good.” My voice is low, almost tortured.
“It’s one of my favorites.”
“Not a fan of the traditional?”
Her lips tip upward. “You know I need something a little extra, Henry.”
“Do I know that?”
I watch as her eyes flutter to my lips as she takes another sip.
One thing I do know about my girl is that she isnotgood with her alcohol. It only takes a couple of sips for her eyes to turn glassy.
I nearly count down the seconds.
“It was really nice seeing you play today,” she purrs as she strokes my face, her lips so close to mine that I can smell the whiskey on her breath.
I place my hand on her neck with a smile. “I’m serious, I really love seeing my name on your back.”
“I feel like that’s some weird, masculine urge to possess something talking.”
“Maybe it is, but is it so bad to want all of you?”
It’s a game of who can push further, both of our gazes drifting down, our heads getting closer and closer by the second.
“I mean, I’m still wearing it,” she flirts.
