He gave a soft snort that grated on my nerves. “You absolutely need to be here, Belle. The staff atThe Grayare an extension of my reputation. If you can’t describe what’s in the glass, you might as well be pouring beer at a dive on the pier.”
Jesus. The bluntness. He didn’t even blink as he said it. My cheeks heated immediately and I had to tamp down my temper.I picked up the glass, mostly to keep my hands from fidgeting with the hem of my dress.
“I worked a beer tap once. Not my finest moment.” I caught his gaze over the rim of the glass. “But I’m not exactly a cocktail expert.”
He didn’t look away. Just watched me, that smile barely curving his mouth. “You’re here to learn. And I’d bet money you’ll be the best I’ve ever trained, if you want it.”
My brain stuttered. The best? I barely got through a shift on two functional hands. “Have you lost your mind?” Not what I should have blurted out, but there it was.
“Try the drink, Belle,” he said, voice low, his gaze steady on my face.
With a very put-out sigh, I took a careful sip, letting the foam brush my lips. The taste was so soft and floral it almost shocked me—a little tart, but not sour, and the lavender clung on my tongue after I swallowed. I closed my eyes for a second, caught off-guard by how good the drink tasted.
“Wow,” I finally said. “That’s actually…really good.”
Dario’s intense gaze didn’t move from my face. “Describe it.”
I hesitated, but he just waited. Silent. Patient. Intense as hell. “Um, it’s soft. A little tart, but then there’s the lavender? Not soapy or anything. Just fresh. Smooth.” I took another sip because why not, we were here for this, weren’t we? “It kind of sticks around. The floral. Like getting kissed by a flower but in a nice way.” I shrugged, feeling like an idiot. “Sorry. I sound like an ad for perfume.”
Dario raised an eyebrow. “On the contrary. That’s exactly the kind of description customers respond to.” His mouth twitched. Just a fraction, but it was there. “That’s the exact reaction I hoped for, Belle. Most people just say ‘floral’ and leave it at that.”
The way he said my name. Like a dare. Like he was waiting to see if I’d break. There was something uncomfortably intimateabout being watched so closely. Studied. And some masochistic part of me didn’t want to look away.
"Ready for the next one?" Dario asked, his voice betraying nothing of what he might have read in my expression.
"Yes," I replied, my voice steadier than I felt. "I'm ready."
The words felt like a lie even as I spoke them. I wasn't ready, not for whatever was happening in this room, not for the way my body responded to his proximity, not for the dangerous path I sensed opening before me. But as Dario slid the second cocktail across the polished surface of the bar, his fingers brushing mine once more in what couldn't possibly be another accident, I knew I wouldn't be leaving. Not yet.
By the third cocktail my shoulders had dropped from their defensive position near my ears, and I'd settled more comfortably onto the barstool. The notebook lay open beside me, a few hastily scribbled notes and sketches scattered across pages that should have been filled with professional observations. Instead, I found myself watching Dario's hands as he prepared each drink, how his eyes lit with subtle pride when I identified a particularly elusive flavor note.
His gaze held mine for a moment longer than necessary before he turned to prepare the fourth drink. "How did you learn about spirits?”
The question caught me off guard. It seemed too personal for what was supposed to be a professional tasting, yet I found myself wanting to answer, to share something of myself with this enigmatic man. Probably the alcohol, but… fuck it.
"Um… Well, my grandmother, actually," I admitted, watching as he expertly measured rum into a shaker. "Every summer when I visited, we'd make blackberry cordial from berries we picked ourselves." The memory rose vivid and sweet, bringing an involuntary smile to my face. "She let me taste just a drop when I was eight. I thought it was the most magical thing I'dever experienced, capturing summer in a bottle." I could still see my grandmother's kitchen, sunlight streaming through gingham curtains, the huge pot of berries simmering on the stove filling the air with their sweet-tart scent. My hands had been stained purple for days afterward, no matter how much I scrubbed them. "We had to wait weeks for it to be ready," I continued, caught in the memory. "I'd check it every day, watching the color deepen. When we finally bottled it, she saved one small jar for me to take home. Not to drink, of course, I was far too young. But to remind me of our summer together."
I looked up to find Dario watching me with an expression I couldn't quite read, something softer than his usual calculated gaze. The elegant cocktail sat forgotten in the shaker.
"My first taste was less charming," he said suddenly, breaking the silence. "I was twelve. My father caught me sneaking into his study to look at his collection. Instead of punishing me, he poured a finger of Scotch older than I was and told me to drink it." The personal disclosure surprised me. I couldn't imagine the intimidating Dario Luca as a curious twelve-year-old, sneaking around his father's study.
"That sounds intense," I said, genuinely curious now.
Dario shrugged. "He said if I was man enough to try stealing it, I was man enough to appreciate it properly. It burned like hell, but I pretended to enjoy it." A short laugh escaped him, the sound unexpected and strangely charming.
"Did you? Eventually enjoy it, I mean." I leaned forward, drawn by this glimpse into his past.
"Not that day," Dario admitted, his expression lightening with the memory. "But he taught me to appreciate quality. To understand what makes something valuable beyond its price tag." I got the strange feeling he was talking about more than alcohol but was becoming as intoxicated by his presence as I was by the drinks we’d consumed.
I nodded, taking another sip of my drink. "My grandmother said something similar about her cordials. That the value wasn't in what you could sell them for, but in the moments they helped you remember."
Our eyes met over the rim of my glass, and something passed between us, a moment of unexpected connection that made my heart beat faster. I looked away first, suddenly conscious of how much closer I'd leaned toward him.
Dario slid the fourth cocktail across the bar, a tropical creation with bright citrus notes and hints of spice. As I reached for it, our fingers touched again, and this time I was certain it wasn't accidental. His lingered against mine for just a heartbeat too long, the contact sending warmth spiraling through me.
“One more.”
“It’s all starting to go to my head.”
