I chuckled, stepping aside to let him in. “Absolutely. River is holed up in the office, probably drowning in paperwork, but otherwise, we’ve got the place to ourselves.”
Patrick’s grin widened as he set his notebook on the polished bar and fished out his phone. “Mind if I take some pictures as we go? For reference, you know.”
“Knock yourself out,” I said, moving behind the bar. The familiar weight of the cocktail shaker in my hand made me smile. “Ready to dive into the wonderful world of mixology?”
Patrick nodded enthusiastically, his fingers flying across his phone screen. “Born ready. Where do we start?”
I grabbed a highball glass, twirling it with a bit of flair. “Well, young grasshopper, the first rule of cocktail making is”—I paused for dramatic effect—“don’t spill the booze.”
Patrick snorted, scribbling furiously in his notebook. “Sage advice. I’ll make sure to write that down in all caps.”
As I lined up various bottles and ingredients, I felt a surge of pride. I’d struggled with anything academic from a young age until I was diagnosed as dyslexic. I’d overcompensated by being good at other things. After a short stint in a bar in my early twenties, I became hooked on the art of mixology and hadn’t looked for a different job since.
“All right, let’s start with a classic—the mojito. Simple, refreshing, and guaranteed to impress.”
Patrick leaned in, his eyes sparkling with curiosity. “Hit me with your mojito wisdom, cocktail sensei.”
I laughed, grabbing a handful of fresh mint leaves. “First, we muddle the mint to release those essential oils. It’s like giving the leaves a gentle massage—you want to coax the flavor, not beat it into submission.”
As I demonstrated, Patrick’s brow furrowed in concentration. “So, less Hulk smash and more…mint whisperer?”
“Exactly.” I grinned, adding a splash of simple syrup. “Now for the rum. Remember, measure with your heart.”
Patrick raised an eyebrow. “Is that bartender speak for ‘pour recklessly?’”
I winked, carefully measuring out the rum. “Only on special occasions. For now, we’ll stick to actual measurements. Your liver will thank me later.”
As we continued through the steps, I relaxed into the familiar rhythm of crafting drinks. Patrick’s enthusiasm was infectious, his questions ranging from insightful to hilariously off-base. It felt good to share my passion, to see the spark of understanding in someone else’s eyes.
“And there you have it,” I said, sliding the finished mojito across the bar. “One perfect mojito, ready to transport you to a Cuban beach.”
Patrick eyed the drink appreciatively, then glanced back at his notes. “That is amazing, Drew. You make it look so easy.”
“It’s all about practice. And maybe a little bit of magic.”
Patrick took a cautious sip, and his eyes widened. “Oh wow. This…this tastes incredible.”
I beamed, already reaching for the next set of ingredients. “Just wait until you try a whiskey sour. Now that’s where the real fun begins.”
As I reached for the whiskey, Patrick set down his mojito and fixed me with a curious gaze. “So, Drew,” he said, his tone suddenly casual, “I’ve got to ask—is there a special someone in your life?”
The question caught me off guard, and I nearly fumbled the bottle. “I, uh…what?”
Patrick’s eyes twinkled mischievously. “Come on, a charming bartender like you? Surely, you’ve got admirers lining up around the block. Not to mention, you’re gorgeous.”
Heat crept up my neck. “Oh, you know…I keep busy with work and the Foundation…”
“Mm-hmm,” Patrick hummed, unconvinced.
There was a pause, and when I looked up, Patrick was studying me intently. “But there is someone, isn’t there?” he asked softly.
My heart skipped a beat. Was I that transparent? I swallowed hard, feeling suddenly exposed. Slowly, I nodded, unable to meet his eyes.
“That’s a good thing, Drew. Whoever they are, they’re lucky to have you.”
“Thanks,” I murmured, managing a small smile.
Patrick’s face lit up. “You had plenty of guys bidding on you at the fundraiser. Even your friend West, right?”
