Page 44 of Meet Me Back Here

“That I do, but we called her Mia here,” Tyler says, rotating Forrest’s wrist and placing a quick kiss to the back of his hand. “But she’s already turned me down, so I’d rather focus on you. You’re a forest I could get lost in…”

“Sorry, Tyler,” I cut in. “He’s spoken for.”

“By you?” Tyler asks, pinning me with an accusatory stare, eager for tea.

“No, no.” I shake my head quickly, realizing that’s exactly what it sounded like I was saying. “Forrest and I are just friends. Best friends.”

When I look back at Forrest, he’s frowning, but he smiles again when he catches me watching him.

“Sorry Tyler,” Forrest says with a soft smile to sugarcoat his rejection. “But I will say that’s one of the best pickup lines I’ve ever gotten.”

“You both break my heart.” Tyler sighs before he picks up a shaker, drops some ice into it, and follows that with a healthy pour of tequila. “Spicy is ok?” he checks with us.

When I worked here, Tyler was a barback and one of the younger employees, but we all knew he wanted to tend. He was always watching the bartenders, asking questions, and spending every spare moment he had memorizing drink recipes. With his personality, he was made for the job.

“They let you sling drinks now, Ty?” I ask, happy that he looks so happy.

“They let me manage bar, baby,” he says, beaming. “You’re looking at a champion mixologist over here.” He points to a plaque near the register awarding El Lobo best margarita in Arizona last year.

“Shit, Tyler, that’s amazing!” I say, brimming with pride. “I leave our drinks in your capable hands.”

“You both could have known how capable these hands really are if you didn’t turn me down,” Tyler mutters, a twinkle in his eye as he wedges a pint glass in the tin. After aggressively shaking his mystery concoction, he pours out a vibrant yellow-orange liquid into two margarita glasses rimmed with salt.

“They’re mango, but there’s a kick of serrano pepper in there. Be careful,” he says as he sets two waters beside our drinks.

We thank Tyler, and Forrest slides his glass closer to him to smell it.

“Oh, I can tell that’s dangerous,” he says before quirking an eyebrow, the ice in his glass clinking as it shifts around. “Not blended though?”

“Never,” Tyler and I say at the same time, and I pull my best withering stare out. I hope it matches the gravity of the situation.

“I take it back,” Forrest hurries to say before raising his glass to me.

We cheers and sip, and it’s perfect. Sweet and smooth and just a bit spicy. Forrest coughs and tries to hide it.

“I found the spice,” he says, his voice raspy. “But that is delicious.”

Tyler takes a bow. “Any shots to start things off with a bang?”

I nod eagerly before putting on my best innocent expression.

“Chilled, please. With training wheels,” I say sweetly, knowing it’ll earn me some mocking.

“Booooo,” Tyler scorns, furrowing his brow at me.

“Does the tequila need it? Absolutely not. But I like it.” I bat my eyelashes for good measure. “Please?”

“You’re lucky I like you,” Tyler says, salting the shot glasses before plunking them on the bar before us. He drops two lime wedges onto a cocktail napkin too.

“Training wheels?” Forrest asks, leaning close to whisper in my ear, his hand braced on the back of my stool. I expect he doesn’t want to get shamed again after his question about blended margaritas.

When I turn to explain, I find that penetrating gaze staring right into me. He’s close enough that I can smell the serrano peppers on his breath.

“Salt and lime,” I say, doing everything to hold his stare and finding it very difficult to do so.

It’s just that first rush of tequila hitting my system. Nothing more.

“Do you want me to just order some things for you?” Tyler asks, sliding the shots toward us and pulling our attention back to him. He’s poised at the POS.