I winced. Not a good start to my apology. “Yeah. Too far. I’m sorry.”
I thought she would egg me on further and request I grovel on my knees, but she did something even more shocking. She accepted it.
“It’s okay. I’m sorry for my comments, too.” She twirled the ice in the glass with her straw. “You were right. My articles are dull. But it’s not my fault. My boss has me edit them so much it takes all the personality out of them.”
Bear, a middle-aged man with a thick beard, dropped off a glass with a chipped edge. He placed a tiny white napkin below it and a red straw inside. Based on the color, it looked like a whiskey drink with a few add-ins. He clapped Macey on the shoulder before returning to the bar.
I grabbed the glass between my hands and gave it a whiff. “Have you tried explaining that to your boss?”
She laughed, and it evoked a strange feeling in my chest. Could smelling alcohol lead to heartburn? I’d Google it later. “More times than I can count. It’s not that easy.”
As soon as I sipped the drink, I noticed a hint of sweetness, perhaps from a touch of honey, that softened the whiskey’s bite. Then a subtle hint of spice that tingled on the tongue. It tasted like liquid gold, sweet and indulgent.
“Holy shit.” I greedily drank more. “This is the best drink I’ve ever had.”
“Told you so,” she said.
I pushed the glass to her. “Here, try it.”
“No, thanks,” she declined. “But you’re welcome to try mine.”
I took a sip of the offered glass. Equal parts sweet and tart. “It tastes like a flavored lemonade,” I said as I passed it back to her.
“It is,” she said lightly. “I don’t drink alcohol. That’s why we come here. Best cocktails and mocktails in town.”
Interesting. Most people in our age range—especially those who worked press events, where alcohol was served by the bucket—drank. It was rare to find someone who didn’t. Not that it bothered me. I thought it was cool that people could have a good time without getting drunk. And I secretly hoped that Daphne was one of those cool people. Even though based on her 2:00 a.m. private Instagram Stories, she wasn’t.
Which was also fine, as long as she made good decisions.
“Is there a reason?” It wasn’t any of my business to prod, but I was curious.
She shrugged one shoulder. “I’ve tried it a few times, but I don’t like how it makes me feel.”
“I get that.”
Macey pulled her black-and-white purse off the chair and stood up. “Well, this has been?—”
I stood up straighter, instinctively reaching out. Ready to grab her if needed. “Are you leaving?”
“I thought that’s why you wanted to meet.” She sounded confused. “To apologize and clear the air.”
The group of girls a few tables over waved at her and pointed to their empty chair. Macey waved back at them and lifted one finger to signal that she’d be there in a second.
Absolutely not.
“You know those girls?” I asked.
“They’re my best friends,” she said. “They’re here to make sure you don’t murder me.”
My jaw dropped. “Murder you? You’re the one who suggested this place. I think you could get murdered here perfectly fine without me.”
“You’re the one who wanted to talk.”
“Exactly.” I pointed at her seat. “There’s more I have to say. Sit down.” She cocked an unamused brow, and I amended, “Sit down, please.”
Macey sat. “What did you want to talk about, then?”
Very direct. I could work with that.
