Page 4 of Only Lovers in the Building

Hot Bartender Benny dropped his elbows onto the glass counter, exposing the black ink tattoos of knotted vines, curling around his wrists and up his golden-brown arms. “The guy in the suit.”

There was only one guy in a tailored blue suit, and that was the most remarkable thing about him. Naturally he was drawn to her. Like attracts like, she concluded grimly.

“No, thanks,” Lily said. “He’s not my type, and I have a voucher.”

He plucked it from her and held it up as he addressed the suit. “Sorry, man. Your money is no good here. The lady has a voucher.”

The man’s friends—he had quite a few—let out a collective Awww! Lily could have crumbled on the spot. The suit handled it better. He brandished a black credit card and cried, “Shots for everyone!” His words were met with cheers. The DJ bellowed, “Shot time!”

It seemed she’d left one circus for another. Lily washed her hands of the whole thing.

“He’s celebrating his divorce,” Hot Bartender Benny explained.

Lily chanced one last look the man’s way. Pink-faced and bleary-eyed, he was in a hell of his own making. “I wish him well.”

“How do you like your rosé, ma’am?” he asked, already retreating, while she wanted him to stay close and whisper all the secrets of every person pressed around the bar. “On the sweet side or—”

“I don’t like it,” Lily stammered. “I don’t like rosé.” She’d only liked that it was free, which in retrospect was stupid. “After the day I’ve had, just splash some vodka in a cold glass. I don’t even care what kind. Any celebrity brand will do.”

He narrowed his eyes at her. In the kaleidoscope of neon colors, she caught a glimmer of amusement. He crumpled the voucher. “How about I make you something?”

“Please.” She peeled two twenties from the clip and set the bills onto the bar. “Anything you’d like.”

He glanced at the money. “Put that away. It’s on the house.”

This time, Lily had the distinct pleasure of watching him at work for her. He poured and dashed the ingredients of a classic vodka martini into a shaker. Blessedly, he bypassed the celebrity brands and reached for the top shelf. Thrilled, she called out a final request. “Make it filthy!” Her words sailed across the bar at the exact moment the DJ cut the music. Make. It. Filthy. Oh God . . . She had to get out more often. How had she become this stiff, awkward, cashmere-clad woman? Be cool, she told herself. Her attempt at playing it cool failed as soon as she caught Benny’s smirk. Her cheeks caught fire. Nothing could douse it, not even the chilled, dirty martini he placed before her like an offering at an altar.

“For you.”

“Thank you.”

“My pleasure.”

She slid a tip across the bar. He dropped it in a jar.

“This looks amazing,” she said. “You have skills.”

“Enough to keep me afloat through grad school.”

She refrained from asking where he went to school and what he studied. This wasn’t a networking event. She would not produce a business card and ask him to circle back or touch base.

“Taste your martini before you praise my work,” he said. “It might be too dry.”

The perfect martini was a cut diamond in a chilled glass. Dirty or not, you checked for clarity and color. So far, so good. The choice of garnish was an art. She went with stuffed olives, always—blue cheese, garlic, jalapeño. Those choices weren’t on offer here. The skewered olive in her glass was standard, plain. She was willing to let that slide. Lily raised the glass to her lips, took a sip. The chilled vodka slid down her throat. She instinctively closed her eyes and wished the day’s stress would drain away. When she opened her eyes again, he was gone, off pouring shots for the suit and his friends. She took a couple more sips. Just when she was ready to resume her sad, solo date, he returned. “Filthy enough?”

Lily nearly did a spit take. With a half smile, he handed her a cocktail napkin. “Tell me about your day.”

“What do you mean?”

The question was clear enough. Lily was buying time.

“You said ‘after the day I’ve had.’ That’s a setup for a story.”

“I don’t want to bore you.”

“Lucky for you, I love stories. It’s part of the job. I serve drinks and advice.”

Where Noah was a Mediterranean golden boy, Hot Bartender Benny was rough sea salt extracted from the Caribbean, geotag as yet unknown. Dark hair, dark eyes, dark honey skin made brown by the sun. His face was all hard, sharp lines. And beneath that black T-shirt, there was an equally hard and angled body—she just knew it.