Random, but okay. I cock an eyebrow as I pour about half a shot into each glass, listening to her continue.
“Anyway, she ordered picklebacks for everyone. Ateverysingle bar we went to.” Her hand covers one of her cheeks, and she laughs at the memory.
“The fuck is a pickleback?”
“It’s a shot of whiskey and a pickle juice chaser. I didn’t like them at first, but they really grew on me, if you can believe it.”
This girl talks a lot.I almost don’t respond because I want her to keep going but quickly change my mind.
“Can’t say I keep pickle juice around, sorry.”
She curls her hand around her glass, lifting it to her nose. I chuckle when she grimaces at first. It’s strong. Intense, some might even say. But if you sip it slow and get used to the bold flavor, it’s pretty smooth.
“Don’t be. I want the full whiskey experience.”
I think she and I have two different definitions of what that “full whiskey experience” would be. If she were here under different circumstances, I’d have already taken her shirt off and poured it down her bare chest, licking up every drop with my tongue.
She’s beautiful, this I already knew. But imagining her with no clothes on . . . It makes my mouth water just picturing it. I wouldn’t know whether to stare or touch first.
And suddenly I need this drink more than I thought I did.
I feel bad ogling and thinking about her like that. My self-control is entirely intact, and I’d never pounce on her or make her uncomfortable. But my brain is a different story.
She’s so . . . fascinating. She doesn’t push me, yet our conversations feel exciting, and that’s entirely new for me. It’s like the ground I stand on loses its gravity every time she asks me something and then holds my gaze like she can’t wait to hear my answer.
It doesn’t help that she’s a damn knockout. I’m hard-pressed to come up with a picture of a girl in my mind that I’ve met in the past that could even hold a candle to how pretty she is. It’s jarring how curious I am about her. That’s the opposite of how I usually feel when I meet someone.
And Ihatethe little crease in the middle of her lower lip. It’s so cute, it should be illegal. It’s been taunting me. Begging me to smother it with my own mouth.
After that string of thoughts, I shake my head and take another damn drink, watching her over the rim of my glass. She’s biting the corner of her lip, staring a hole into her tumbler of whiskey that she hasn’t chanced tasting yet.
It burns down my throat, but settles my nerves like I’d hoped it would.
“Is this the proper way? No ice, no mixer?”
I nod, and she moves the glass in a small circle, swirling the liquid around.
“It’ll warm you up. Just try it, Iz.”
Both of our eyes widen. I didn’t mean to throw a nickname out there, it just slipped out.
Leave it to me to make things fucking weird. This is why I don’t like talking to people. The part of my brain that’s supposed to have a filter is missing, and most of the time, people don’t always want to hear exactly what I’m thinking if it isn’t a watered down version of the truth. They only want to hear it if it’s sugar-coated.
I don’t get that vibe from her, and it does make me feel more comfortable around her than most. But if I told her exactly what I was thinking, she’d still probably slap me.
I down the rest of my glass and move to pour another few fingers’ worth. She’ll forget I called her by anything other than her full name.
A few moments pass before she works up the courage, but she finally takes a drink. A tiny sip, more like. Still, it’s enough to make her slap her hand over her chest and cough a few times. I laugh instantly, rubbing my thumb and forefinger over my temples.
“That good?” I tease.
“Oh,yeah,”she wheezes.“Bigfan.”
I grab one of the bottles of water in the fridge and unscrew the cap. She doesn’t hesitate accepting it, setting her whiskey glass down in the process.
“I feel like a badass now, drinking whiskey neat.”
I’ve lost count of how many times this girl has made me want to laugh. More times than I have in the last few months combined, honestly.
