“Reek?” Diaz repeated, amused. “Sounds like my gym bag after road trips.”
Ethan gave a tight smile. “It’s an acquired taste.”
Bennett lifted his glass in a mock toast. “Some things are worth acquiring. Others, not so much.”
The subtle dig sailed right over Ethan’s head, but I felt it land between my thighs. I hid a smile behind my glass.
Diaz, ever the peacemaker, turned to him with an easy smile. “What about you, man? What do you do?”
Ethan straightened, clearly glad for the spotlight. “Tech sales. Enterprise software. Six figures last year, looking at seven this year if the pipeline closes right.”
Diaz nodded politely. “Nice. High stress?”
“Rewarding stress,” Ethan corrected, launching into yet another monologue, this time about some deal he’d closed with a Fortune 500 company. “You guys get it,” he said, glancing between Diaz and Bennett with a smirk. “Big money, big pressure. Though, I guess the perks are different in your world. All the gorgeous cleat chasers? Must be nice having your pick.”
“Dude, unless one of those cleat chasers look like Chris Evans, I’m not interested.”
The air shifted.
“Oh,” Ethan said, a crease forming between his brows. “I didn’t realize— Wait, are you two on adate?”
Diaz barked a laugh, completely unfazed. “Nah,Benito’s not my type.”
“And why the hell not?” Bennett’s lips twitched, but he played along dryly.
“You’re too broody,mi pana.”
I snorted despite the tension. “He’s not wrong. Chris Evans has the whole golden-retriever energy thing on lock. You’re more reserved and . . . observant, like a . . .”
Bennett blinked. “A what?”
The answer came to me in an instant. “A Rottweiler.”
His brows lifted slowly, like he was considering whether to be offended or flattered. Then one corner of his mouth tipped up. “A Rottweiler,” he repeated, thoughtful. “Yeah, I can live with that.”
Diaz grinned. “She’s not wrong. You do look like you’d take a bite out of someone for touching what’s yours.”
Ethan let out a short, humorless laugh, drumming his fingers against the table. “Wow,” he said, eyes darting between us. “Is there something going on between the two of you.”
“No,” I said quickly—tooquickly—even though my body very much disagreed.
Ethan’s jaw tightened, his smile stretching thin as the guide launched into the next pour. I stayed quiet at first, sipping water between samples, but when the guide mentioned a rare Japanese whiskey finished in Mizunara oak, I couldn’t help myself.
“Did you know that Mizunara imparts sandalwood and spice notes because of its high vanillin content? More than any American or European oak. It’s why the whiskies have that almost incense-like quality.”
The guide nodded enthusiastically. “Great observation.”
Ethan looked up at me, a frown on his face. “Why do you know that?”
I shrugged. “I saw it in a documentary and it just kind of stuck with me.”
“I thought you didn’t know anything about whiskey.”
“I don’t really.”
Ethan recovered, launching into a story about his last distillery tour, but I caught the edge in his voice. And from the sound of it, he was more annoyed by the idea of sharing the spotlight than he was with sharingme.
By the last pour, a cask-strength bourbon that could strip paint, Ethan was visibly irritated.
