That cocky grin saysmore than capable.
Now that Queenie’s settled, all my focus lands on him. Relaxedjeans, black button-up shirt, untucked and open just enough to display the wings of his eagle tattoo. Casual and sexy.
He helps me out of my coat, making an appreciative noise. “Damn. You could’ve warned me.” His gaze lingers on my legs. “You’re killing me in that dress and those shoes.”
“More like these shoes are killing me. Rayne made me wear them.”
“I’ll be sure to thank her. But I want you comfortable.” Before I can respond, he crouches in front of me, his palm sliding down my bare calf to my ankle, slow and deliberate, lighting a fuse under my skin.
I place my hand on his shoulder, steadying myself as he slips one heel off, then the other.
“That feels better.” I wiggle my toes.
He rises, all citrus heat and temptation, towering over me. “Can I make you a drink?”
“Sure.”
With loose-limbered confidence, he leads me into the kitchen and drops my coat over a chair. The cabinets are oak, the countertops black granite, holding nothing but an espresso machine. A space that looks like it’s still waiting to be used.
I slide onto the stool and watch him grab a cocktail shaker.
“What are you making?”
“Cherry Bourbon Sour.”
“You remembered.”
“As if I could forget the first drink I ever made you for your twenty-first birthday.” He grins, pouring a generous shot of whiskey, squeezing in lime, and adding splashes of cherry syrup. He shakes it up with practiced precision, then strains it over ice, topping it with a Luxardo cherry.
“Thanks,” I say as he hands me the tumbler.
Grabbing a beer for himself, he clinks the bottle to my glass. “Cheers, Web.”
“Cheers.” I take a deep sip. “Mmm. You still make it good and strong. Just the way I like it.”
“That’s what I was going for.” He leans against the counter, watching me bring the cocktail to my lips again.
“So is the kitchen still the test lab for your cocktails?” I ask. “Or do you actually cook in here now?”
“Cooking’s still not my lane. Too much hassle.”
“Some things are worth the hassle.”
“You cook now?”
“Yeah.” I enjoy another sip—that hint of sweet against tart and the whiskey burn warming my belly. “New York’s expensive, so it was a matter of affordability at first. I started with the basics my mom taught me, then added my own flair. When I’m in the mood, cooking feels like creating art.”
Something flickers across his face.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing,” he answers too quickly, then brushes it off with a grin. “So, you gonna show me those new culinary skills next time?”
“Depends on how tonight goes.” I drain the last of my drink and pluck the cherry from my glass. Flirting with danger, I drag it across my tongue before biting it clean off the stem.
His groan is low, primal. “You testing me, Web?”
“I don’t promise seconds unless the first hits just right.”
