Either way, her day clearly went to shit on whatever phone calls she made. Turning that around for her is a bartender’s job, right?
It’s not a job I’m here to do right now; I usually only help out at the bar when we’re slammed and I happen to be in. But there’s no way I’m leaving her to Beckett, my daytime bartender, who’s prepping the bar for the night shift right now. Let him cut limes and make drinks for the other customers.
This one is all mine.
I push off the bar and select a bottle from the glass shelf behind me. When I turn back, her eyes widen at the shot glass I place in front of her.
“Really?” she says. “Thatbad?”
“I’m afraid it’ll take at least two shots to fix what ails you, ma’am. Bartender’s orders.”
“Well, alright,” she says, with mock disappointment. “Bartender knows best, right?”
I pour the shot without a word. If Jace was still here, he’d probably wink at her and deliver some smooth line. But thank god he’s living in the house I’m renting out next to the bar right now; I sent him over to load some tools into my truck that I don’t even need. I’m not going to examine why. His smirk told me the reason, even if I wanted to lie to myself.
I’m looking at the reason right now.
She lifts her eyes to mine. They’re light green, with faint circles beneath that suggest a lack of sleep. “You’re not going to have one with me?”
I consider that for a second. Then I pour myself one, too. We pick up the shots, clink them together, and throw them back.
She licks her soft, plump lips and something stirs, low in my gut. Lower. “Wow.”
“Wow good, or wow bad?”
“Good, obviously. What is it?”
“That,” I tell her, “is award-winning blackberry gin from my family’s distillery.”
She rests her chin on her palm, gazing at me as the gin works its way through her system. “Orchardanda distillery, huh?”
“Among other things.” Now it sounds like I’m trying to impress her with my family’s assets, so I change the subject. “Just one shot for me, though. I’m working.”
“I see that. What happened to that house you’re supposed to be working on?”
“I am. I will.” The truth is, it’s getting harder to walk away the longer she gazes at me like that.
“Well, then. Before you go, can I get that second shot?” She slides her shot glass toward me. I refill it with violet gin, and she throws it back; gin didn’t earn the label of “panty peeler” for nothing, and this is the smoothest gin I’ve ever drunk.
Dangerously smooth.
“So ... classic rock, huh?” she says, and licks gin from her lip. “Is that your musical jam?”
“One of many.”
“Interesting. I consider myself a melomaniac.”
“Oh, yeah? You have an obsession with music? Me, too.”
“Really.” She narrows her eyes at me in disbelief. “There’s obsession, and then there’sobsession.”
I lean toward her on the bar, close. “I’m sorry, is this a competition?”
Her cheeks flush as her mouth opens slowly. I think she’s flustered.
I think those are fucking butterflies I feel in my stomach as we stare at each other.
“I have been known to be disturbingly competitive about my musical knowledge,” she says.
