Page 12 of Tricky Puck

“At your invitation, I’m taking my leave.”

He drags in a deep breath and lets out a sigh as I clumsily attempt to extricate myself from the tight, padded booth. He must have pushed the table in my direction with his big, over-muscled body, and I stare at him accusingly. He doesn’t do the gentlemanly thing and pull the table back so I can leave gracefully. Of course not.

“Don’t do that.” His words are unnervingly quiet, and my brain is still unfamiliarly short-circuited by a riot of hormonal interference, my emotions all astray, scattered so I can’t gather them or figure out what I’m feeling—at least not past the control of my lizard brain and the war between pure baby-making lust and emotional self-preservation.

“Why not?” An automatic knee-jerk response spills from me like I’m reading from a script buried deep in my psyche labeled social etiquette training. Because, why do I care why not? I shouldn’t care.

And yet, I wait for him to answer while I hover awkwardly, half standing, caught between the end of the booth and the heavy wooden table that I know he could easily move even while it’s impossible for me to budge.

“We’re both here for the same reason—we love our grandmothers. Neither of us wants to disappoint them.”

Oooh. All the air and the energy and the adrenaline fueling my fight-flight lizard brain craziness implodes, leaving the dazed, resigned, raw bones of me behind, stripped of the sexual pull and all the baggage, and the protective ice chip that used to reside solidly on my shoulder nowhere in sight, completely melted away.

All I’m left with is a clear head and open mind, heaven help me.

“You’re right.” I collapse back down into the cushy booth and give him another once over, allowing my unbridled appreciation for his hidden facets—the ones not all about his overpowering physical magnificence and sensual draw. “You love your grandma. How bad could you be?”

“Ditto. I’m man enough to admit I was wrong. You were right. We have that one very important thing in common.”

I nod. “There must be something else. Bet we can come up with a list if we try hard.” Glancing at my empty glass of whiskey, wishing it had come with ice, I shrug with charity as I pick up the bottle and pour. “We both like whiskey. Cheers.” I down half the glass and find a new level of appreciation for Link Milano because this Pappy Van Winkel is smooth like no other whiskey I’ve ever had—consigned to the lower end of the price/quality hierarchy of the whiskey kingdom as I’ve been.

He watches me as he reaches for the bottle and refills his glass as if he’s fascinated or waiting for me to cough the liquid up and snort it through my nose with watery eyes and a red face like a whiskey virgin might do after such a slug. I plunk my half-empty glass down on the table and stare back as Pappy’s concoction settles in, warming my belly.

The rest of me doesn’t need any more warming. I feel hot.

He smiles, but this time, it’s genuine, showing the shadowy dips and softening his otherwise unforgiving masculine face. He picks up his glass and sips, licks his lips, and then, grinning, shoots the rest of the glass down his throat, throwing it back like a pirate.

Maybe that’s what he reminds me of—a pirate, a man of mixed principles and exciting recklessness.

“This is a good batch,” he says, holding up his empty glass. Without wasting any time with further deliberation, he refills his glass and then tilts the bottle toward mine with a question on his face.

“Is this where I’m supposed to accept the challenge to see who can drink who under the table? Or are you just trying to get me drunk?”

“A simple yes or no will do.” He quirks a brow, and dammit, he makes me laugh.

“Fine. Yes.” I mean it. “Only because this is the beginning of a new chapter for me, and I’m celebrating.”

“With me? A stranger?”

“Why not?” I shrug, the Pappy van Winkel already blurring my reason—or maybe finetuning it. “This whiskey is good stuff, and I deserve a good drunk. Let’s get drunk together, Mr. Lincoln⁠—”

“Link. Lincoln Milano, officially.” His expression softens. “I’m supposed to get up at the crack of dawn tomorrow to fly out of here.”

“To parts unknown?”

“To Portsmouth, New Hampshire.”

“Oh, right. To play some sport for some team.”

“Hockey for the Portsmouth Whalers.”

I wave a hand. “Doesn’t matter. I have no idea who the Whalers are. I barely know what hockey is. There’s a puck, right?”

He grins, his expression crinkling around his eyes in all kinds of heart-warming softness, with his genuine pleasure showing.

“You win, Delaney. Here’s to the song-writer who secretly longs to be a singer⁠—”

A snort escapes as I try harnessing the jolt to my nerves to prevent another bout of fight or flight. Taking another sip as my hand shakes slightly, I lose a precious few drops of the whiskey. “Sorry—didn’t mean to waste the Pappy.” I hope to hell he didn’t notice the shake. Can’t have a stranger noticing the effect he has on me. Especially not this one—a pirate.