“You said you’d be right back.” She shrugs and leans over to smell it. “Is that espresso?”
“Did you even taste the drink I gave you, or just—” I joke.
“No way you made me something else.” She cuts me off with the sweetest smile. “It was pink, and…” she stops to think about it, “...blended! I wasn’t that drunk!”
“Right,” I say, reaching out around her to grab two glasses from the top shelf between my fingers. She stills as I move, and our faces get close again as I slide them off the hook and bring them back around. This whole time, I’d thought her eyes were brown, but they have soft speckles of green mixed into the chocolate tones. “Mm,” I hum, turning away from her and setting the glasses down.
“What else was in it?” She leans against the counter with her nose in the cup.
“Vodka,” I say, popping the cap as my hand grabs a metal shot glass from under the lip. I don’t need it, but if she wants to learn, she’s going to. I set it down for her, letting it slip from my fingers to the counter, where it rattles as it balances. “In the fridge, there.” I point, and she turns to look, “There’s a bottle labeled BS.”
“It’s labeled bullshit?” She looks up at me as she leans over and pops the door open.
“Brown sugar,” I correct her.
“Less fun,” she grumbles.
“How is bullshit more fun?” I scowl and take the bottle from her as she presses the door closed with her boot.
“For a second there, I was starting to think you had a sense of humor,” she teases, and reaches around to tie her hair back in a bun at the base of her neck. It’s then that I notice the few scattered, light-handed tattoos that creep up over her shoulder and kiss the base of her throat.
“Wrong twin,” I say, holding my tone, but she smiles again, and I take it as a win.
“Thank goodness we dodged that bullet,” she ruffles, shaking out her arms like she’s preparing for a game. I look her up and down, and an amused smile almost forms on my lips at her funny personality.
“And what bullet would that be?” I shove two shakers into the ice bin before setting them on the counter.
“How about you stop asking questions and teach me how to make this without killing the girls. Maybe I can surprise them at the next Dungeons and Dragons night…” she trails off.
I remember the first time that Sunday told us she was starting it, neither Boone nor I could believe it. And I think that was the general consensus from everyone, but it also makes sense because Sunday is the type to fall in love with every book she reads and cry at every television show she watches. Role-playing with her friends is a natural progression, but it’s still hilarious to think Hillcats sit around a table once a week and play with tiny figurines of elves and warlocks.
“How sweet do you want it?” I ask her, holding the bottle over the opening.
“You decide,” she says, and I know there’s no meaning behind it, but the way she says it is sweet and soft.
“Three-fourths of an ounce,” I explain, squeezing it into the cup blind, handing it to her, and pointing to the shot glass on the counter. She listens, under-pouring a little and letting the syrup slide into the shaker. I hold my breath as she licks her finger clean and reaches for the vodka with her other hand. “Two ounces,” I tell her.
I follow suit, free-pouring it again, and use half the espresso in the mug before handing it to her.
“That’s it?” she questions, looking around at the simple ingredients.
“And you haven’t even broken a glass yet,” I tease, warranting a soft scoff from her as I push the lids of the shakers on. I give them both a good bump and hand one to her. “Hold it tight. You don’t want to smell like coffee, and neither do I.”
“I just—” she motions with her arm, and I nod as she starts to shake it faster. I follow suit but take the time with my free hand to move the glasses closer to her. It’s addicting finding ways to make her smile, and the one she’s wearing now is bright and void of any sadness that lingers beneath the surface usually. “It’s so cold on my hands,” she says, stumbling a little with it before she finds the rhythm.
I pop the shaker apart and pour the contents through the strainer into the martini glass without a second thought as she struggles with the lid of hers.
“It’s stuck,” she practically whines, and I take it from her, smacking the side hard with the butt of my hand. It pops free, and her eyes go wide. “Oh.” She mumbles, her eyes on my hands, taking the glass and strainer from me to pour her own. She spills a little, picking up the glass and running her tongue along the side to collect the overpour. Her eyes peer up at me over the glass, and she lowers it away from her mouth sheepishly.
“How is it?” I ask her, trying to ignore the heat burning in my chest from the unfiltered side of her.
“Delicious,” she takes another small sip.
“And no one died,” I say, still watching her.
“And no glasses broke,” she adds, with a soft smirk.
“Luckily, I would have had to take that off your paycheck,” I say to her.
