Heat moves through me anyway. Not the way it did last night. This heat is different. It sits lower in my stomach, hot and heavy. It annoys me because it’s childish and stupid and has a name I don’t like to use. Jealousy. Possession. It is not a useful feeling. I dislike it in other men. I dislike it in myself even more.
I step into the lounge, and the barware guy clocks me out of the corner of his eye. I see the way his shoulders stiffen slightly, but he keeps his smile in place. Olivia does not turn. She finishes her sentence, patient, as if the presence of an owner in her airspace is not a reason to break her rhythm. It isn’t. She knows that. She’s right.
“…and the etch should be simple,” she says to him, voice steady. “The logo on one side only. We’re not making a billboard out of a rocks glass.”
The vendor laughs, eager. “Of course, of course. Classy. Minimal. I like it.” He taps the box like that confirms it. “And if we, ah, find ourselves needing… special orders, we can always—” He lets the sentence hang with a little wag of his eyebrow, like an innuendo but about glass. It’s silly. Somehow that makes it worse.
“Special orders go through me,” she says, not cold, not warm. Clear. “But you’ll have ample notice.”
“You got it.” He grins. “You just call me whenever.”
She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. He doesn’t notice.
I close the last of the distance. My footfalls are not loud, but the man’s attention snaps to me the second I startto approach. He straightens. As a salesman, he is good at reading a room.
And he knows when he’s come across someone who holds the checks.
“Morning,” I say in a neutral tone.
“Good morning,” Olivia answers, turning at last. Her face is calm. Her eyes give away nothing. The scarf is a band of color I cannot stop looking at. Her voice does not dip or rise or waver. “This is Marco with Coastline. We’re reviewing the last samples.”
I tip my head into a nod. “Marco.”
He thrusts out his hand like a man eager to prove himself. I shake it because there’s no sense in cutting a vendor off at the wrist unless you need to. It’s not his fault that he’s been enamored by Olivia.
His palm is soft, warmer than mine, no calluses. “Pleasure,” he says.
“Show me,” I say, looking at the box, not the man.
He flips the lid and pulls out a rocks glass like it’s a jewel. It is handsome: weight in the base, clean lines, a whisper of an etch near the rim. The logo is understated. It catches the light without being obnoxious or loud.
Olivia lays a fingertip near the etch. “We want the etch here. Right-hand pour. When the glass lifts, the mark appears and disappears. No shadow on the drink. No double branding.”
I nod because she’s right. “Good.”
Marco angles toward her, pleased. “She’s got an eye,” he says, conspiratorial, like I might have missed it.
“She does,” I say, and my voice is flatter than I intend.
He clears his throat and pulls a second glass. “Highball,” he says. “Same family. We can do a frosted ring if you want variation—”
“No ring,” Olivia says. “We’re not in 2006.”
He laughs, too big, as if that line was meant to be a joke for him. “Right, right. You’re tough.”
“I just know what I want,” she says. She looks at me without looking at me, a quick flick that a stranger would miss. It’s an acknowledgment: I am here; she sees me; we are at work.
Then she’s back to the glasses, tapping the rim again. “We’ll need sixty dozen to start on rocks, forty on highballs, and twenty on coupes. Stagger deliveries by week so the receiving dock isn’t choking.”
“Sixty, forty, twenty,” Marco repeats, pulling out his phone to make a note. “We can do that.” He glances at me, then at her, then back at me. He is a man who notices details for a living. He does not know what he’s noticed. He smooths his hair. “And, uh, if there’s a VIP event, we can do custom for the night. Names on glass, dates, you know—romantic keepsakes. People love that.” He shoots that shit-eating grin at Olivia again.
Shedraws a small breath that only I catch. “Just these for opening,” she says. “No dates. No names.” She turns a page of the legal pad. “Lead times?”
This is where the man should earn his keep. Instead, he leans again, elbow back on the bar, and shades his answer in charm. “Depends on how—ah—special you want to be. For you?” He smiles at Olivia like they’re sharing a secret. “I’d make it quick.”
Heat hits the back of my neck. It’s not a bonfire; it’s a slow, deep burn like a coil on a stove turning red. I do not need to feel it. I feel it anyway. He is not being crude. He isn’t even being bold. He’s being ordinary, and somehow that’s what blows grit in my eyes.
I keep my voice pleasant. “Dates, Marco.”
