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“The usual for you, my lady. And Charlotte too. But something a bit different this evening for you, Toni,” he said, flashing her a look with those green eyes.

When she was young, Toni used to wish her name was a nickname for something grander like Antonella or Antoinette. But when Lawrence said it, it sounded anything but simple. In fact, he could say her name a thousand times, and she’d still want him to say it again.

She was losing her mind. Clearly.

“So what is it?” she asked, trying hard to keep her voice casual.

“A cranberry flower,” he said.

She took a sip, her eyes peering at him over the rim of the martini glass. He’d begun cleaning the space where he’d made the drinks, but he stopped what he was doing and waited for her response.

She’d been serious about not usually liking craft cocktails, but this was really good. Sweet but a little tart.

“Mmmm, what’s in it?”

Tossing his hand towel over his shoulder, Lawrence gripped the edge of the bar and leaned forward, as if speaking to her alone. She found herself leaning in.

“Fresh lemon juice, simple syrup”—he lowered his voice—“a bit of cranberry juice, for a slightly bitter taste. And gin . . . sweet and intensely fresh.”

Like you.

He didn’t say it, but she knew it was on the tip of his tongue.

“I see.”

Catching the eye of a customer waiting to order, he glanced back at her before moving away.

“Yes, Toni,” he said over his shoulder, “I think you’re starting to.”