17
Tiff
Sam was doing this on purpose.
He was practically making it his job to get under my skin.And more annoyingly, it was working.
Sam was behind the bar again tonight, doing his best to bother me.Our stations were beside each other, which served as a constant distraction.Every inch between us.Every brush of skin or clothing as we worked.If he reached over to pick something up, I would zero in on his hands, watching his dexterous fingers as he stirred a bar spoon.
There was little relief when he turned to the back bar, especially if he was getting any of the top-shelf stuff because then I would be met by his broad shoulders, the implication of taut back muscles burning themselves into my brain.
It was like a dam had burst, and I was being flooded by all things Sam.A pillowy lip.That damn lopsided smile.His melodic voice as he greeted customers.How confidently he could switch between charm and authority, dealing with difficult customers or unforeseen problems with calm.How a soft command from him made my thighs clench.
Sometimes, I caught him watching me.Observing.Our eyes met, tangled, and he’d look away.Sometimes the light would add a flush to his skin, and I’d feel my own cheeks heating in response.
Of course, Sam was (as always) very careful to maintain distance.Always stepping out of my way like he was afraid to touch me.If he knew me at all, he would have realized that was the worst possible choice.Because it only made me want to reach out to him more.
While I took an order for three French martini’s, Sam sidled in beside me to serve another customer.A quick flick of my gaze told me that she was gorgeous.And clearly giving him the eye.
I hated her.For completely unselfish, non-jealous reasons.
Because this was Sam.Annoying, calculating, surprisingly toned, cynically funny, with dimples I wanted to lick, Sam.
“What do you recommend?”I overheard her ask him, and I waited to see his reaction.It wasn’t an extremely busy night, so we had the time to mix up something special, but typically this question was a sort of make or break for a bartender.Any time we spent trying to guess what you wanted was time we lost making tips.
It was usually a death knell.
So, of course, Sam responded with a winning smile and genuinely tried to help her decide on something, recommending a few things off the menu and explaining their flavors to her while she stared dreamily at him.
What a bitch.
I couldn’t recognize the cocktail from the ingredients he pulled out, which meant he was making something of his own creation.Knock me over.Was there anything he couldn’t do?
Reaching for the Chambord, only to grab air, I cursed when I spotted it on the other side of him.
Over my shoulder, I asked, “Can you pass me the—”
Without missing a beat, he reached over and placed the bottle in my waiting hand.I paused, blinking at it.“Oh.Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”He continued working.
Shaking the martini, I had to ask.“Where did you learn to bartend?I thought you just ran places?”
“I have a long and varied career.”
Neither of us had bothered to look at each other, focusing instead on our drinks, but at this, I had to turn.“Oh, come on.Give me something.”
Something odd happened to his mouth that I couldn’t discern (I was tempted to imagine he was annoyed with me because it was an expression I’d grown used to seeing on him), but he still answered my question.“When I was seventeen, I tended bar for a local place.Completely kitsch, screens everywhere, lots of jerseys on the wall.”
“Sounds like the kind of place my dad loves.”
“It was a great place.The decor was horrible, but it was busy every night.For years, I wondered why, considering how run down it was.The drinks weren’t that good, the food was even worse.But the locals still loved it.”
I could picture it exactly.I’d worked in my fair share of those places.“It was home.”
He nodded.“Yes.”
When the martinis were done, I took the card payment, surprised when Sam turned to the woman I’d served.“Enjoy your night.I take it Tiffany treated you well?”
