“Is that what you’d still like, cher?” I asked, resigning myself to the inevitable.
I had no doubt the internal battle this woman waged over a cocktail choice took more energy than most people gave to much bigger decisions. It was clear; control was a huge part of who she was.
“No, dammit.” The frustration was clear in her voice, and I barely managed to hide my smile. It wouldn’t do to have her think I was laughing at her. “I still can’t believe it’s a thing, but I want to try the artichoke bitters.”
“Trust me?” I repeated, hoping for a different answer this time. She tipped her head to the side, exposing the long, slender column of her throat. I pushed back against the image of running my nose over her pale skin, breathing in her scent before following the path with my lips. My teeth. Some of what I’d been thinking must have shown in my eyes because I heard her breath catch and watched her swallow hard. She nodded, reluctantly, but it was there.
I grabbed a grapefruit from the well, the bottle of bitters, and the small-batch gin I’d picked up at the new distillery I’d found outside Thibodeau. It had an herbal note that worked beautifully with the juniper. She watched me cut and juice the grapefruit into the shaker before pouring in the gin and bitters and topping it with ice. Her blue-eyed gaze followed my movements with an intensity that would have made me uncomfortable if I didn’t love it so damn much. She watched as if she were trying to understand the steps. Not like the hipsters who came in looking for a free mixology lesson; more like her mind couldn’t be quiet, and she was determined to take in as much information as she could. I was fine with that. Better than fine. In my experience, when they let themselves, curious people felt pleasure more intensely. Everything about that worked for me.
I grabbed a rocks glass from the freezer and strained the drink in the frosted heavy glass before flaming a rosemary sprig and tucking it and a paper straw into the drink. Setting the glass on the coaster in front of her, I waited and watched.
She didn’t hesitate. She picked up the glass, slid the straw between those gorgeous red lips I’d already imagined wrapped around my cock—God help me—and took a sip. She took another one before setting the glass back on the coaster and hitting me with a smile I wanted to see a lot more of.
“It’s good.”
“It’s better than good and you know it.” I leaned on the bar, letting a little of my smugness show.
“You’re not plagued by lack of confidence, are you?” She searched my face, as if she were cataloguing ideas.
“I imagine that’s something we share. My name’s Ford, by the way.”
“Charlotte.” She raised her glass in a mock toast and took another sip.
“Is the herbal taste from the bitters or gin? It’s more than just the rosemary.” There was the barest hint of a wrinkle in her forehead, and I resisted the temptation to smooth it with my thumb.
“It’s the gin. They use a two-step distillation process. Some of the heavier aromatics—the juniper, cassia bark, lemon peel—are immersed in the spirits. A second batch of botanicals are put in a copper basket the vapor from the distillation passes through, infusing it before it condenses again.” I watched her, looking for any sign she’d glazed over during my gin documentary.
“Like a gin-making potpourri,” she said, catching the essence and knocking me off guard at the same time.
“It’s actually a lot like that.”
It was a testament to how focused I was on the woman in front of me. I didn’t notice the suit until he slid onto the stool beside her.
“THAT LOOKS GOOD,” THE SUIT said, casually, as if he were interested in the drink and not the woman enjoying it. He wore the uniform of the financial assholes who made up a significant portion of my business. Expensive suit, no tie, and a dress shirt open at the collar. After a drink or two, he’d slip off the jacket and show off a stomach kept flat by too much self-indulgent time in the gym in the absence of actual physical work. I was aware of the irony, considering the time I spent at the gym, but that was different. I couldn’t say how; it just was. He was exactly the kind of guy Charlotte probably took home to work off some tension. I hated him and his smug “that looks good” comment.
“It is.” She shifted slightly on her stool, giving him a three-quarter view of her gorgeous body clothed in a silk blouse and skirt that with a jacket would project power. With the top three buttons of her sheer blouse open and the barest hint of what I was sure was a spectacular lace bra, she looked like expensive sex. She’d also slipped on another persona. She’d replace the genuine smile I’d started to expect with one that managed to seem predatory and guileless at the same time. Stupid suit didn’t stand a chance. He watched her like she was a cupcake and he was a five-year-old boy, thinking he was in control. She’d only said two words, and she already owned his ass.
“I’ll have one of those,” he said, poor clueless bastard.
I arched an eyebrow at Charlotte, but she seemed to be deliberately not meeting my gaze. Or, more likely, she was focused on the prey in front of her, and she’d forgotten all about the bartender. Fuck me for caring.
As I mixed the drink, I heard the suit explain to her that vermouth was the most important part of any good gin cocktail.Cochon.The fucking prick was trying to seduce her with my drink, and he was wrong. I set the rocks glass on the coaster in front of him, barely avoiding sloshing gin over the rim of the glass. The last thing I needed was to have to remake the drink for the asshole. Or worse, waste the good gin.
“To new friends,” said the suit, raising the glass to her.
She gave him the barest of smiles, just a curve of her lips that would keep him guessing. Nothing like her real smile. She raised the straw to her mouth, and his gaze tracked her lips like a dog, waiting for its owner to throw the ball.Cochon. I ignored for a moment that I was paying a lot of damn attention to her lips too. It wasn’t the same thing. I’d made the drink she was sipping. It was my work she was tasting. Any pleasure she got from it was because of me, not the clueless bastard getting her second-tier smile.
I had to get a grip on myself. I had no claim to her and no right to have an opinion about how she spent her night. If she decided to take the dumbass suit home, I needed to respect her choice. I glanced around the mostly empty bar—where was the after-dinner rush when I needed it—to make sure everyone was taken care of, and then I retreated to the other end of the bar. Not so far away that I could avoid hearing bits of their conversation, but far enough that the car crash wasn’t right in my face.
I picked up my phone and thumbed open the e-reader app. I’d never let one of my employees get away with fucking around on their phone behind the bar, but I wanted a diversion.
She told him her name was Charlotte, but she also told him she worked as an interior designer, so who knew where the bullshit started and ended. It didn’t matter. Dumbass suit didn’t care beyond getting off, and with the way he was leaning into her, finding excuses to casually touch her, he was looking more and more like he’d won the lottery. I was going to have to watch her leave with him. God dammit. Forcing my attention back to the book on my phone, I tried for something—anything—resembling a proportional response. There was absolutely no reason for me to be so twisted up over a woman who’d only walked into my bar that night.
Shaking my head in disgust at myself, I tried to care about the witch and her vampire and the book that would only show itself to her, but I was doing a rubbish job of it. When Charlotte—it was her name; I’d looked it up on the credit card tab on file to be sure—slid off her stool and headed to the restroom, I gave up and put my phone away.
“I need to close out my tab. Hers too,” said the dumbass, waving his credit card atme.
“Sure,” I said, finally faced with the inevitable. And then I had another thought. “It’s so good to see her happy. She doesn’t get out often anymore.”
