I hesitate for half a beat before handing it over. Not because I’m nervous, but because I know that bottle. Black Maple Hill, purple label. Strong, honeyed, just a hint of brown sugar at the end. It’s my favorite, too.
Our fingers brush when he takes the glass. An accident, the kind of oversight I haven’t let myself make since my first year on the job. These people are rich, and they don’t want commoner skin oils on their expensive silks.
But we touch, and Mr. Gallo does not pull away.
The contact sends a quick, unwelcome jolt up my arm. Or maybe not so unwelcome. It’s hard to tell, in the split second that passes between us, that spark of electricity that drags his gaze to mine.
He’s twice my age. Dangerous. The kind of man I should not even consider. But at that moment, my body doesn’t know that.
It just knows what it wants.
But my brain knows better, so I yank back my hand as if burned. The motion is abrupt—too abrupt. It jostles the glass and makes a couple of drops of expensive bourbon splash on the back of his hand.
“Oh, sh—” I blurt before catching myself. "I'm so sorry, Mr. Gallo."
I steady the glass before it can topple, but the damage is done.
Without thinking, I reach for a napkin and start dabbing at the wet spot. “Please, let me. I’ll remake?—”
“No need,” he replies. His voice is difficult to decipher. I can't tell if he's annoyed or not. As he gingerly takes the napkin out of my hand, his eyes don't drift from mine. “And it's Giovanni.”
I blink. “Excuse me?”
"Mr. Gallo's my father. I’m just Giovanni.”
It takes me a second to realize he’s joking. It's so dry, his face so unchanged, I was ready to prostrate myself and beg for forgiveness.
I suppose he has that effect on people. Between the piercing brown eyes, the artfully casual undercut, and the barest hint of stubble on his chiseled jaw, he looks like he belongs on a GQ spread, not at a corner table at some Italian restaurant’s lounge bar.
Shit. I’m staring, aren’t I?
Then I realize I still haven’t answered him.
My process of remembering what we were talking about is soon interrupted by a huff from negroni man, Mr. Neri. He quietly mouths to Giovanni, “Leave the girl alone, Gio. Let her work.”
Yes. Perfect excuse. Time to go.
I flash one last apologetic smile, tuck the tray against my side, and retreat back toward the bar before my face can give me away.
Behind me, I can feel their attention linger. On my fingers, the warmth of Giovanni's hand lingers longer.
By the time I reach the counter, the hum of the room feels louder, heavier. Rose looks up at me, eyes narrowing slightly.
“That looked painful,” she says. “What was the hold-up? They didn’t like their rich-boy juice?”
“Not their fault this time.” I sigh. “I’m a bit of a klutz tonight.”
“No way.” Rose tips her glass to me. “You’re perfect, as always. The dictionary definition of a hot, competent bartender.”
“Tell that to the mafia table.”
She rolls her eyes. “Izzy’s rubbing off on you.”
Probably. But I can’t stop looking back at Mr. Gallo—Giovanni.His dark suit that blends in the black velvet cushions, his dark eyes still pointed in my direction. I still can’t tell whether he’s upset with me or?—
Or what? Lusting after the broke bartender who’s half his age?
Yeah. As if.
