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They flitted them in the air. “Had another friend familiar with the drink paint them so I could get the color right.” Feb raised her other brow. Dylan didn’t seem the sort to forget details, especially given this was a drink they recalled from a visit, not one they poured regularly. “I’m color-blind,” they explained. “Needed a reference to match. Blues are tricky for me.”
And yet they were going out of their way to make a blue drink for the V-day menu, trying to right a past wrong done to Feb, and doing so within the confines of Feb’s no-pink rule. All little facts that heated Feb up inside, that made the simmer between them kick up in intensity.
And kick up more as soon as Feb took a sip of the intriguing, surprising drink full of the contradictions she couldn’t get enough of. She’d expected the blue curaçao giving the drink its color to be the dominant flavor, but the bitter, orangey flavor of the liquor was balanced perfectly by a one-two punch of smooth tequila with subtle heat and a smoky mezcal that absorbed the burn of its agave sibling, before a blast of freshness—lime and another flavor Feb couldn’t quite place—subtly recentered the orange. “What’s the secret ingredient? Besides the tequila-mezcal duo.”
“Caught that, did you?”
She grinned. “Something that brings out the sweetness of the orange, not the bitter. Guava?”
“Close. Passionfruit.”
“That’s it!” She took another taste, savoring as she picked out each flavor, the journey of the drink in a single sip the kind of thing a chef—definitely a foodie—would geek out over. “This is wonderful, Dylan.”
The rosy blush that colored their winter pale cheeks was lovely. Feb itched again to reach out and pick up where they’d left off at AB’s, but Dylan filled the silence again first. “I also made a blueberry-rosemary-orange shrub,” they said. “We can use it for soda water or champagne for those who don’t want the hard liquor. They’ll still get their rose.”
“Thank you,” Feb said, as much for herself as for her diners who Dylan had gone out of their way to make feel special. “You didn’t have to do all this, but they’ll appreciate it. I appreciate it.”
Blush deepening, Dylan averted their gaze, tracking Feb’s hand as she set the glass aside, then sliding to her open notebook still on the counter. “You still making menu revisions?”
“The sunchoke soup was a hit tonight. Swapping it out.”
“You’re always making it work.”
Feb took a deep breath, then stepped into the opening Dylan had presented. “I was afraid I hadn’t with you.”
Dylan continued to look anywhere but at Feb. Not a good sign. Was the spark Feb felt between them one-sided? Was she just imaging the heat in their gaze and the invitation in their smile? Was Dylan just being polite and professional? Had Feb really fucked things up that badly? “I’m sorry that I just left Friday night.”
They ducked their chin and ran a hand over the back of their neck. Feb sensed they would’ve run it over their head too if not for the mohawk. “It’s not you,” they said, then immediately jerked their chin up, apology swirling in their green gaze. “Fuck, scratch that. No one ever wants to hear that line.” They dropped their hand, and for the first time that night, Feb glimpsed the tension they’d been hiding all service long. The tightness in their shoulders and back, the divot between their eyes, the clench and fist of their hands, like even their fingers hurt. “Some family shit hit the fan. That was where I was yesterday.”
“Is everyone okay?”
Dylan swiped Feb’s drink and drained the rest of it. “TBD.”
“If you need to take more time?—”
“I need to be here,” Dylan said, stepping closer as if they couldn’t help it, and hope flared inside Feb. She shifted on her stool, heels propped on the rung so her knees were bent on either side of Dylan’s hips. “Feb,” Dylan murmured, equal parts want and warning in their voice.
Feb took her chances on the first, snagging the end of their tie and drawing them closer. “Are we still on for Tuesday night?”
“I shouldn’t,” Dylan said, even as their expression said the opposite.
“Why?”
“Said family shit. I love them, but it’s complicated.”
“Let’s try not complicated.” Feb drew them the rest of the way in, straightening so they were at eye level, noses and lips a scant distance apart. “Do you want to go out with me Tuesday night?”
“Yes.” Zero hesitation.
Feb grinned. “Do you want me to kiss you right now?”
“Fuck yes.”
Green light.
And Feb didn’t hesitate to speed ahead, slamming their mouths together and claiming the kiss she’d wanted all night. Had fantasized about the past two days. Hell, since Dylan Jacks had first entered her restaurant. Dylan didn’t hold back either, their tongue tangling with Feb’s, their arms circling her neck and resting on Feb’s shoulders, their body as snug to Feb’s as it could be given their position and clothing.
Shame, that. The nook, barely larger than an airplane bathroom, didn’t hold nearly the possibilities of the bar, or better yet, a bed at her place or Dylan’s. Some place she could kiss and tease every inch of the rockin’ body her hands were skating over, could see if the rest of Dylan flushed as lovely as their cheeks, could find out if the graceful movements she vaguely remembered through the whiskey haze of the other night held true as Dylan came apart at the seams from pleasure.
