I take a sip, already marshaling my best fake “Ooh, I love it!” face. But my subpar acting skills are not required, as this is unlike any other whisky I’ve had before. It’s still kind of burn-y, but there’s a sweetness there I wasn’t expecting. A little hint of vanilla that makes it go down much smoother. The water helps.
An image of Steven at our local bar flashes into my mind, and I’m telling Lachlan a story before I can stop myself. “My ex liked to drink Scotch—sorry, whisky-no-E.Every time we were out, he’d make me take a sip, and it always tasted like dirt. Like burning, smoky dirt. And call me crazy, but I just don’t think choking on peat should be the sensation that accompanies a cocktail. He’d always insist that it was an acquired taste, then look at me with an expressionjuuustbordering on shame, and reluctantly order me a gin or whatever it was that I actually wanted.”
“He sounds like a real gem.”
I fight back the warble in my voice. It’s my fault for bringing Steven up when the mere mention of him is enough to tip meinto a cold sweat, but I can’t let my gloom ruin the nice time we’re having. “Yeah. Well, the point is, this is delicious.” I raise my glass to toast Lachlan, but he doesn’t have a drink.
“We’re a bit too close to preseason, I’m afraid. I’m a teetotaler from now until the World Cup. It’s the only part of the job I don’t like.”
“I bet that makes you a cheap date when you do drink, though.”
“You have no idea; waft a Laphroaig under my nose and I’m on the floor. My mates from school would be ashamed.”
“Filing that away for future reference.”
“Very dangerous of me to give you so much power, McIntyre.” He looks at the whisky with blatant desire. “Give us just the one sip, though.”
I extend the glass to him, then pull it back. “You sure? I refuse to be held responsible if this night ends with us dancing on tables at a strip club.”
His eyebrows shoot straight up. “You know, that would almost be worth the bollocking I’d get off the manager.” He takes one sip and returns the glass. “Ah, just like my gran used to pour for me.”
A series of thoughts glom together in my head, jostling for space, one of which is “I have his DNA now,” like the whole night is some elaborate CSI sting operation. Another is that if I rotated the glass and drank out of the place he sipped, it would be like we kissed, so I guess in my head I am still a twelve-year-old girl.
Thankfully, Lachlan is rummaging around in the fridge and doesn’t see the color I briefly turn. He shuts the door and turns back to me, resting his elbows on the counter. “All right, here’s the situation we find ourselves in: As discussed, it’s nearly preseason, which means that in addition to swearing off the booze, I should really be back on a steady diet of chicken and broccoli.”
“Works for me.”
He shakes his finger. “I’ve not spent two decades honing my culinary skills to serve you boring-arse chicken. The question is just how naughty are we being tonight?”
I blush. I actually fully blush, and this time, I can’t hide it.
“Ah, bless the color in your cheeks. Tells me everything I need to know, including that you are, in fact, Scottish. So, therefore, question the second: If culinary naughtiness occurs, what are the odds you’ll grass on me to the training staff?”
“Well, you’ve already had a sip of whisky, which by your own admission should put you on the floor at any moment, and as a dyed-in-the-wool supporter of the Mersey Football Club, I must put the team first.” I put my hand on my heart and shake my head slowly at him. “I simply cannot countenance such behavior.”
“I had you pegged as a traitor from the start. But it’s a risk I’ll have to take.” He pulls out a smorgasbord of ingredients from the fridge—butter, white wine, Parmesan, some green herbs, a tub of what looks like broth, and a little Tupperware full of something I can’t identify. He gathers onions and garlic, salt and pepper, and a canister of rice. It’s more ingredients than I use to cook in a week. Arraying it on the counter between us, he looks up at me. “I’ve consulted the fridge gods and they have delivered their verdict. Do you like lobster?”
“I mean, I’m from Boston.”
“Brilliant. Do you like risotto?”
“I mean, I’m human.”
He laughs.
“But seriously, Lachlan, you donothave to go to all this trouble. I’m not even that hungry.” As if on cue, my stomach growls.
“Setting aside the perfect comedic timing of that tummy rumble, the fact is that I have this leftover lobster and this homemadelobster stock and the window for naughty, naughty lobster risotto is rapidly closing, so really, it’s out of my hands.”
“You made lobster stock?”
“I’m a professional athlete; I can barely tie my shoes. My ma made it.”
I stifle a laugh.
“Something funny, Yank?”
“No, sorry, I just died a little at the thought that a grown man worth millions has his mother cook for him. It might actually be the most adorable thing I’ve ever heard.”
