“Bombay Sapphire, dirty with extra olives,” I ordered, sliding a little ice into my voice. I did not squirm, and I wasn’t about to start, especially not because some bartender stared at me.
He cocked an eyebrow and handed me a folio without saying a word. The cover was worn soft like a well-used messenger bag. Without thinking, I ran my fingers over it, enjoying the feel of the slightly warm leather.
I’d ordered a martini, and he gave me the cocktail menu. What the actual fuck? Because I’m a woman, I couldn’t possibly know what I wanted without shopping first? Misogynistic asshole. I should ask for his manager or better yet, just get up and leave. Staying had been an impulse decision—an impulse I didn’t have to continue to indulge. Except the only thing waiting at home for me was an empty apartment with no gin. I didn’t have a cat or even a plant, a fact that didn’t normally bother me but in light of all the wedding planning, it didn’t sit quite right tonight. I was confident it would after a martini or two, or maybe even some company. I glanced around the mostly empty bar and decided the drink was my best plan, so I’d humor the asshole—for the time being.
The thick white cardstock seemed more like a wedding invitation than a drink menu. The rag content of the paper would do a society matron proud, but instead of feeling stuffy or over the top, it managed to feel contemporary and rich. And that was before I read the descriptions of the cocktails. There were enough herbal-infused simple syrups to make a dedicated hipster happy, but there were also interesting combinations. Things I wouldn’t have considered, like dark chocolate kisses and bourbon, and smoked rosemary gin with grapefruit.
The bartender stood by quietly waiting, but I could feel him watching me. Seriously, what the ever-loving fuck? Attentive was a good thing in the service industry, but this guy took it to a new, just this side of creepy, level.
“What are artichoke bitters?” I didn’t bother to hide the derision in my voice. Of all the unnecessarily pretentious things. Who needed bitters made from an overgrown thistle? Except there was that gin juniper berry thing, so maybe it wasn’t as crazy as it sounded.
“We make them in house, starting with the artichoke and vodka and adding in orange peel, allspice, cardamom, and a few other spices.” He said it as if he were explaining something he cared about, not reciting a speech he’d given dozens of times before. The latter was probably true, but his tone made me lean in a little.
Well, that didn’t sound terrible. It actually sounded kind of delicious. I scrolled throughthe rest of the ingredients in the cocktail. If I ordered it instead of my original choice, did that mean he’d been right about me knowing what I wanted? Did I care?
“What’s your pleasure?” He dropped theRon the word pleasure, the warm, deep timbre of his voice an interesting combination of the barest Southern drawl and something more. “Still want the Bombay or has something else caught your eye?”
I couldn’t help but think he was talking about something other than my drink order. He was handsome—neatly trimmed dark beard covering a square jaw, with eyes somewhere between hazel and brown. He wore a crisp white dress shirt cuffed to his forearms and black slacks sitting low on narrow hips. The cut seemed too good for even a well-paid bartender. Either tips were exceptional, or he was a bit of a clotheshorse. That was something I could respect.
The double entendre masquerading as a helpful comment was what bothered me. Or, rather, my reaction to it. The man was charming, and I’d rather he wasn’t. None of which made sense. Which added to my irritation. I’d gotten myself caught in some kind of handsome bartender loop with no clear escape.
––––––––
I WATCHED THE THOUGHTS PLAY across the woman’s gorgeous face. It was better than any movie reel I’d ever seen. Although I doubted anyone not studying her closely would even notice.
“Or perhaps you’d rather I make a suggestion?” I said when she continued to hesitate.
I didn’t want to make a suggestion. I wanted to tell her what she needed and then help her get it, but I had a feeling if I went that far, she’d bolt. That would be a real shame. I could see her wrestling with something. I imagined she only showed people exactly what she wanted them to see, but there was a hesitancy in the way her finger hovered over the drink menu. I wouldn’t have noticed if I hadn’t been paying attention.
Who was I kidding? I noticed everything about the lovely creature sitting in front of me. I hadn’t been able to take my eyes off her since she walked into my bar with her dark-haired friend, the one who looked intent on trying to convince the wound-tight woman to do something she didn’t want to do. I had exactly the opposite goal. I wanted to convince her to do a half a dozen things I knew she’d fucking love.
“Trust me?” I asked, clearly getting ahead of myself. But if I got her to say yes to one pleasure, maybe we could move on to others.
Her laugh caught me off guard. She let out kind of a giggle snort and clasped a hand over her mouth for a moment while her shoulders shook.
“Why would I do that?” she asked, still smiling.
“What do you do for a living?” I wasn’t usually this twisted up over a woman, and this one was going to take more than my normal amount of skill. I needed to get out of the quicksand and back on firmer ground. She paused for a fraction of a second, and I had the impression it wasn’t a question she always answered willingly. Which meant she either trusted me—fat fucking chance—or she didn’t care enough to lie to me about the answer—sad but far more likely.
“I’m a divorce attorney.” She said it as if daring me to make a comment. I had no intention of being half that predictable.
No wonder she was prickly. She saw the worst things people could do to each other, all wrapped up in the language of love and loss.
“So, if I was considering marriage, it would make sense for me to trust you to give me advice on the best way to protect myself in case things go ass over teakettle?”
She laughed, and I could almost see her relax incrementally.
“That’s easy. Don’t do it. It’s not worth it.”
I’d never considered marriage before. Beyond the occasional handcuffs on the bedframe fucking, I’d never been a fan of being tied down. Not as more than a far off in the future concept. I hadn’t rejected the idea completely, but I hadn’t found it. I certainly hadn’t been looking for it. Still, the finality of her words made me inexplicably sad.
“See,” I said, ignoring the tightening in my chest that made no fucking sense. “I don’t know you, but I can already trust that your advice comes from an informed perspective. So, you sat down looking for a cocktail, maybe you could trust...” I left the rest of the sentence unfinished so she could fill in the blank.
“I sat down looking for a Bombay Sapphire, dirty with extra olives.”
Well, damn. The corner of her luscious red lips curved up just enough to let me know she enjoyed messing with me. I was good with that. Whatever gave her pleasure. Which begged the question...why? Why her? Why did I suddenly care whether this woman was enjoying herself or not? What was it about her?
Or I could ignore the questions and keep going, because whatever the reason, I wanted to see what happened when she really felt something, even if it was only enjoyment in her drink choice.
