The comment hangs in the air between us like a fart in church. The little flash of resignation in Jeremy’s eyes when he talked about people knowing his drink order emboldened me to share the detail when I normally don’t talk about my father to anyone. Not even my best friend in the book club, Molly, knows the full story of my family of origin.
“How do you know he hated it?” He’s watching me carefully now, like he’s decided he might not hate puzzles as much as he thought.
I pick up the napkin and smooth it across my lap. “He told me once that bourbon tastes like charred cat piss, but it’s what powerful men drink.”
Jeremy takes another sip, and I swear to God, he grimaces.
“Did you just grimace?” I lean forward. “Does your drink taste like charred cat piss?”
“I made a face at the idea I’m drinking what someone told you was charred cat piss.”
“You don’t like it.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Your face said it for you.”
Michael arrives with our first course, the seared ahi tuna situation with a citrus glaze, mango and avocado, plus micro-greens arranged in a way that suggests they were individually placed by tiny chef tweezers.
“Would you like another, sir?” Michael indicates Jeremy’s half-empty glass.
“He’ll have what I’m having,” I tell the chef with a wink.
Jeremy scoffs. “I will not.”
“Two strawberry fizzy mocktails, please.” I hold up two fingers and smile at Michael, then shift my gaze to Jeremy. “You can thank me later.”
Michael stands there looking uncomfortable, his eyes darting between us like he’s watching a tennis match and can’t figure out who’s winning.
“The mocktail and another bourbon,” Jeremy says evenly.
“Please,” I add, still smiling.
As Michael escapes back to the kitchen, we dig into the tuna. It’s almost too pretty to eat, but I’m starving, and the first bite is so good I actually moan out loud.
“Thank you again for the massage,” I say after a moment. “Even though you didn’t have to do it. The cockwaffle and I were supposed to get couples massages. Today was way better.”
Something dark flashes in Jeremy’s eyes. “Have you spoken to him?”
“Not since I walked out. I blocked his number. I haven’t spoken to anyone.” I set down my fork. “Have you?”
“I keep my promises.”
The words land soft but solid, and I believe him. I don’t know why, exactly, but Jeremy Winslow seems like the kind of man who’d sooner cut off his own hand than break his word. Even to someone he barely tolerates.
Michael returns with our drinks, setting the bright pink mocktails in front of each of us and replacing Jeremy’s bourbon glass with a fresh pour. I watch Jeremy eye the strawberry fizz like it might contain actual poison, and stop trying to hide the smile that tugs at my lips.
“Go ahead,” I say. “Live a little.”
With a theatrical scowl, he picks up the glass and takes a drink. His expression cycles through surprise and contemplation beforeshifting into grudging approval. He tries to play it cool, but I catch the slight widening of his eyes as he swallows.
“It’s not terrible,” he says.
“It’s delicious.”
“It’s tolerable.”
“You love it.”
