Also, her medical appointments.
Mor assures us she’s looking for a solution among her shelves, but the witch keeps coming up empty so far. So, every three days, Clem has to return to Madeline in order to get her bandage reapplied. They go into another room for the procedure and close the door, but with my advanced hearing, I pick up on the little gasps of pain Clementine lets out.
The sound has me wanting to rip the door off its hinges and carry her away from the witch.
It’s not Madeline’s fault, I remind myself.She’s helping.
But then Clementine walks out, shaky and pale, and I have to shove my fists into my pockets to keep from punching something.
Instead, I take her to get a bear claw from Coffee & Claws. The first day we stop by the café, Clementine is surprised to see a bookshop next door. The place was an abandoned storefront when she left town. Since the new owner, a siren named Neri, happily lets Shrimp inside, we’ve added book browsing to the post-healing ritual. Clementine is normally smiling by the end, and I realize belatedly that’s my goal. To erase the pain lines etched into her face, ease the sour stench of fear from her vanilla-hibiscus scent, and bring a spark of joy back to her eyes.
When did I start caring about her happiness?
It’s only because Carl’s happiness is directly related, I tell myself.That must be the reason.
After the bookstore, we head to the bar—where I work, and she works, and I make some gods-damned complicated cocktail that I normally wouldn’t care about whipping up for anyone else, but for some reason, the fact that Clementine keeps ordering them irks me.
By the sixth day, when she requests a pomegranate mojito, I can’t handle it anymore.
“What do you have against beer?” I wave at the chalkboard, listing more than twenty options, all on tap, a portion that I’ve brewed myself.
“Nothing.” Clementine doesn’t bother to look at me when she answers, busy on her computer.
A few times, I’ve glimpsed her screen and seen her arranging graphics and typing out text on what looks like the back end of a website.
“So, why are you ordering these fancy cocktails every day?” That question comes out in more of a growl than I meant it to.
“Because I contain multitudes.” Clementine stops typing and focuses her full attention on me, which makes my skin hot for some reason. “When I’m working, I like to treat myself to a pretty drink. Makes me feel like I’m onSex and the City.” She should not be allowed to say the wordsex. “Besides, you want more than just beer drinkers in here, right?” She gestures toward the wall of liquor behind me as proof. “This is good practice for you. Hone your skills with a forgiving audience.” The taunting curl of her lip threatens my blood pressure.
“You’re my booze coach now?” I straighten and cross my arms. “You assume I need practice?”
“You don’t?”
“No. In fact, I have that.” I point to a framed certificate just above our 100.00 health rating. The framed document clearly shows off my Advanced Bartender Certification.
Clementine lets out a low whistle that has Shrimp’s head perking up. “Well, look at that. I didn’t know I was dealing with an expert.”
I can feel the smugness in my smirk, but I can’t help the pride. It was a hard fucking course.
“Guess I’ve been taking it easy on you.” Clementine braces her elbows on the counter, a challenging glint in her stare. “Make me something really fancy then. Blow my mind with your skills.”
I turn away, pretending to stare at the selection of liquor I have behind the bar. But really, I’m trying to keep from revealing the effect those words had on my body.
So many skills I could use to blow her mind, and none are related to mixed drinks.
What the fuck is wrong with me?I run a rough hand over my face, as if it’d clear these off-limit thoughts from my mind.
I cannot be getting hot for Clementine Divos. My best friend’s little sister. The woman I want to leave this town forever.
Been too long since I went on a date. That must be the problem.
Because I need the distraction—and not because I want to impress her—I start on one of the most complicated drinks I’ve ever fashioned. I’ve only made it once before, as part of the test for my mixology course.
I carefully measure each of the ingredients into the shaker, then begin the first round of mixing, keeping an eye on the clock to make sure I stick to five minutes exactly. Under shake, and it won’t reach the perfect foamy consistency. Over shake, and the drink turns to shit.
Next ice, then more shaking.
Luckily, my arms don’t get tired like a human’s would. Plus, I’m fueled by Clementine’s growing astonishment.
