“You order a shot of the shitty kind every time I’m at the Grog. And if you have three shots instead of just one, you might tell me again that I ruined your life.”
I freeze. “What?”
He smirks. “Never mind.”
“No, notnever mind. What are you talking about?”
He shakes his head.
And a little teeny tiny memory of him doing that motion in the Grog knocks something loose in my head. “Oh my god, I said that to you the night that we played darts.”
“In vino veritas.”
In wine, there is truth.
Or in my case, tequila and a bad day make for weakened verbal filters and suppressed memories.
“Sorry,” I mutter. “I didn’t mean it.”
His eyes smile. “Heard a lot worse.”
Like tonight.
With Nigel insulting him while he stood between me and my ransacked house.
I shiver harder.
Someone—no, notsomeone.
Myex-boyfriendbroke into my house, completely trashed it, and stole a historical artifact that was supposed to go to the Thorny Rock Historical Museum.
Dammit. My teeth are chattering again. “Dita Kapinski told me the new security system is up and running at the museum. Thank you.”
“Kapinski—your neighbor?”
I shake my head. “My neighbor is Dita’s mother-in-law. Dita lives closer to Tillie Jean’s parents.”
Davis scoots closer to me, pops the top on the bottle, and pours a shot into each of two rocks glasses.
He hands me one.
I down it.
He refills me, then leans back on the couch.
But he doesn’t shoot his tequila.
He sips it.
I sniff my glass.
I’ve never had a tequila that I’ve wanted to sip.
Much like I’ve never had a vodka that I’ve wanted to sip.
Tillie Jean told me once it’s because we only drink the cheap stuff. She’s been to parties in Hollywood because of Cooper, and I get the feeling she’s tried things that are way out of my income bracket.
Probably like this tequila.
