"Um, no, it never came up."
"Miller..."
"Okay fine I..." But he doesn't get a chance to continue because said waitress waltzes over with our drinks and a basket of fancy bread in all shapes and sizes.
"Your martini." She places the drink in front of me and then turns her attention to Miller. "Your old-fashioned. And the Whistlepig Boss Hog, sir."
"Thanks," he tells her, not paying her much consideration. He's polite, but it doesn't go any further than that.
"Can I get you anything else?"
I shake my head and he declines, sending her on her way a moment later.
"So," I say. "What's so special about that one?" I point to the golden liquid in the one glass.
"For starters…" Miller picks up the strangely shaped glass. "Whistlepig is hands down my favorite brand of Whiskey. And this one”—he holds it out in front of him like he's examining it— “is hard to find because there aren't that many bottles of it. The mash bill is one hundred percent rye. It's not even that expensive, but it's damn good." Miller extends his arm across the table. "Here. Try it."
"But...you're so excited, you can take the first sip."
"I insist."
Reluctantly, I take the glass from him and bring it to my face. "Are you sure?"
"Positive."
I sniff the whiskey, noting the warm spice and sort of maple scent and then take the smallest taste, not wanting to consume too much. It's savory, with a hint of sweet, and it goes down a hell of a lot smoother than I thought it would, leaving a lingering smokey flavor. "Damn," is all I say.
Miller smiles, and it warms my chest more than the whiskey does. "Good, isn't it?"
I nod and give him back his glass. "Damn good." Now I can't fathom my martini coming even close to matching that. Still, I drink some water and then try it, the saltiness of the olive juice is a complete contrast to the whiskey.
"Mmm," he mumbles after trying his drink as I try not to stare at him too much.
He's just so damn attractive, in a mysterious and tortured kind of way.
"How did you meet Dominic?" I ask, the question surprising him no doubt as much as it does me. The desire to learn more about him overpowered my desire to not cross the professional boundary I keep attempting to put in place.
"Well," Miller says. "It's sort of a very long story, that would require an excessive amount of back story, and I'd probably have to draw a little diagram of names and job titles and piece it together for you."
"I'm good with a long, winding story."
Miller tries his old-fashioned and points to my martini. "Is your drink good?"
"Very. Thank you. Is yours?"
Of course, it is, he comes here all the time, and he probably has the same damn thing. Why am I asking such stupid fucking questions? Can't I just shut up and pull out the notebook full of design stuff and have him make a few decisions so I can come to terms with the fact that this is very much a business meal, and nothing more.
"Yes, it is." He slides it across the table. "You can try it, if you'd like."
And because the idea of being anywhere near where his lips were, I accept his offer. "That is good," I tell him after swallowing. The whiskey in the drink is still very present, but it has a sort of subtle sweetness to it that makes it wickedly dangerous with how easily it goes down.
I return his drink and advance mine. "Are you a martini fan?"
"Can't say I am, but I don't think I've ever had one. Especially not a dirty one." He brings it to his nose and sniffs it the same way I had when I tried his.
I bite at the inside of my lip as his press to the rim of my glass, my eyes trained way too fucking intensely on a man who is simply tasting a martini.
"Not bad," he says. "Very...olivey."
