“I needed some time to think.”
“About the consequences of lying?” he asks with a raised eyebrow. “Or have you been coming up with ways to back out of our arrangement?”
“I’m not backing out,” I assure him, “but I decided it would be better to discuss the finer details in person.”
“All I need is your address and a time to pick you up. Information you could have provided over the phone.” His eyes narrow. “And yet, here you are.”
“Logan mentioned today you’re a bartender,” I say, changing the subject. “I can’t believe you kept such an important piece of information to yourself.”
He tilts his head to one side. “Important how?”
“I adore a good cocktail. They’re my drink of preference, and you must know a hundred of them.”
“I know a few. Why do you prefer cocktails?”
Lifting a hand, I start ticking the obvious off on my fingers. “Beer is disgusting. Wine is boring. Basic spirits are too harsh. A cocktail, however, is always vibrant and surprising.”
He gives a short laugh. “Are you one of those people who walks into a quiet piano bar and asks for a drink requiring a blender?”
I grimace. “That may have been me once or twice.”
“Figures.” He rolls his eyes, straightening from his lean. “Would you like something to drink now?” I open my mouth to respond, but he holds up a hand to stop me. “Please, don’t say surprise me. Bartenders hate that. If you say it, I’ll dump aFire Enginein front of you and be done with it.”
“I would never do such a thing,” I insist, one hand on my chest. “I’d much prefer to tell you exactly what I want. Then sit back and wait for you to deliver.”
I expect some kind of sarcastic retort, but instead Ned’s eyes turn molten hot and a shiver ripples through his limbs. “What do you want, Toni?”
Smiling, I lower my chin and gaze at him through my lashes. “I want aSlow, Comfortable Screw Against the Wall.”
He makes a soft sound, and his palms press down on the bar between us, as if he’s about to vault the wooden surface to give it to me—literally. “Coming right up.” Turning away, he reaches for a bottle of Southern Comfort with one hand and Galliano with the other.
When he places the drink in front of me, I hold out my credit card, but he shakes his head. “This one’s on me.”
I take a small sip from the black straw. The sharp flavour of orange juice and liquor hits my tongue, and my eyelids drift closed in appreciation. “You see? Delightful. Thank you.”
He’s staring at my lips when he licks his own. “You’re welcome.”
The sound of voices alerts us to the approach of customers and Ned moves away to serve them. By the time he returns, the sizzle in the air has been dampened by his previous wariness. “Are you going to tell me why you’re here?”
“Soon,” I assure him. “First, I want to know why you’ve insisted I come with you to this music festival.” It’s the one piece of the puzzle I don’t have, and his answer could potentially change the way I present my offer. “Your band will be with you. Why do you need me?”
Dropping his gaze, he takes a moment to answer. “My ex-boyfriend will be there. It didn’t end well, and when he finds me…” He glances at me sideways. “I’d prefer to be with someone else.”
“So you don’t fall back into his dastardly clutches?”
“That about sums it up,” he says with a curt nod.
“I’m to play the part of chaperone, then?”
“No.” He shakes his head. “I don’t need a chaperone or a babysitter. I just need someone I can hang out with. Someone who’ll be there, so I don’t…” The words fall away, and he makes a sound of exasperation. “I need…”
“A tether?” I suggest.
Breath rushes from his chest and his shoulders sag. “Yes, exactly. I need a tether.”
“I can do that.” I wave a hand with dismissive confidence. “Plus, I make excellent arm candy.”
His low chuckle is accompanied by another glance. “I never had any doubt there.”
