Chapter 1
Lisa
“I’ll have the Barbadian Secret martini, but with Hendrick’s gin instead of the Aria, and I’d prefer the grapefruit-shishido shrub instead of the tarragon, please.”
I smile at the cocktail waitress, who nods and jots something on her notepad. “No problem.”
“I know I’m fussy,” I tell her in a half-conspiratorial, half-apologetic tone that wins more kindness from servers than my extra-generous tips. “But it’s always fabulous when you make it that way.”
She gives me a friendly wink. “Coming right up.”
“Oh, and if you have kaffir leaves,” I add, “I’d really prefer that over the lime zest garnish.”
“Jesus, Lisa.” Across the table, my sister, Cassie, rolls her eyes. “Are you ordering a cocktail or buying a luxury car?”
Our other sister, Missy, pats Cassie’s hand with a haughty expression I suspect mirrors the one I routinely throw at our younger sister. “There’s a real art to craft cocktails,” Missy informs her. “You can’t blame her for knowing exactly what she wants.”
I smile at Missy for having my back, but also at Cassie for being—well, Cassie. My polar opposite in most ways, but I love her more than Proenza Schouler’s new spring line of dresses, and that’s saying something.
I’m also determined to help the poor lamb plan her wedding. “So, Cassie,” I say as I pop one of the Driftwood Room’s famous Sizzling Forest Mushrooms into my mouth and chew. “Did you decide on the letterpress or the foil stamping for your save the date cards?”
She looks at me as though I’ve just shoved cocktail straws up my nostrils and pretended to be a walrus. “I’m a soil scientist getting married,” she says. “Not a senator sending correspondence to foreign dignitaries.”
Her expression softens almost imperceptibly, and she exchanges a look with Missy. I’d bet my favorite pair of Louboutins that our older sister just stepped on her foot under the table, and I know why.
I sigh and address the elephant in the room. “I’m fine, you two. I don’t mind wedding chit-chat. Please. It’s been six months since Gary pulled the disappearing groom act. I’m better off without him, obviously.”
“Obviously,” they chorus, Cassie sounding more convinced than Missy. There’s that look again.
I ignore it and glance toward the bar, wondering what’s taking so long for the drinks. Blocking my view of the bartender is a hulking figure in a black T-shirt, with tattoos covering both arms. I can’t see his face, but his shoulders look like he spends his spare time bench-pressing SUVs. His ass is a work of art, too, like a chiseled piece of granite fitted with well-worn denim.
“Is the limp-dicked fucker still in Arizona for that men’s retreat thing?”
I snap my attention back to Cassie, momentarily confused. “What?”
Seeing my confusion, Cassie glances toward the bar. When her gaze lands on Granite Ass, she gives a knowing smirk. “I was asking about Gary, but I like the look of anti- Gary much better.”
Missy frowns and peers around Cassie. “Anti-Gary? Oh. Oh. Wow. That guy’s huge.”
“Stop staring.” I swat at both of them as Granite Ass turns and catches me watching him. My breath snags in my throat, and it takes five full seconds for me to figure out how to look away. In that time, I’m hypnotized by the most stunning, icy-blue eyes I’ve ever seen in my life.
“Here come the drinks,” I announce in a voice that doesn’t sound like mine at all. It’s high and quivery like one of those porno girls in the videos I used to catch Gary watching. “Bottoms up, girls.”
I snatch a frosted martini glass off the tray hovering next to my head. The waitress starts to say something as I take a big gulp, then sputter.
“Guh!” I gasp. “That’s not the Barbadian Secret martini.”
The waitress stares at me like I’ve just belched in public.
“I’m sorry, ma’am—that’s the order for the next table,” she says. “Yours will be here in just a second.”
Heat creeps into my cheeks, and I’m not sure if it’s from embarrassment or from the extra-strong drink.
Or the fact that everyone’s staring at me, Granite Ass included. I’m deliberately not looking, but I can feel those blue eyes drilling into the side of my head.
Determined to salvage my dignity, I offer an apologetic wave to the befuddled-looking couple at the next table. “I’m so sorry,” I say. “Your next round is on me. My apologies.”
Then I take a daintier sip of the drink, tasting it for real this time. My taste buds perk up, reveling in the icy contrast between brine and bitter. I sip again, and a fat olive stuffed with bleu cheese bumps my lip.
