“Each person gets five shots!” she calls out over the music. “So grab a cup, get in line, and choose wisely which rums you’d like to try!”
The mellow beach vibe instantly shifts from easygoing to loud and wild. People start laughing, shuffling forward, and grabbing cups.
“Five?” Meadow mutters, arms folded over her chest as she stares at the bottles. “Damn.”
I glance over at her, admiring how sexy she looks today in her high-waisted denim shorts and a bikini top. Her hair’s pulled back in a loose ponytail with a few strands falling around her face, her cheeks and nose pink from the sun.
Meanwhile, I threw on a T-shirt with my swimtrunks, already cooked from a couple of days in the sun. This Caribbean heat is no joke.
“What?” I nudge her shoulder with mine. “You can’t handle five shots?”
She scoffs as if she’s personally offended, crossing her arms tighter over her chest. “I can,” she defends. “It just seems like a lot.”
“A lot?” I echo.
She gestures vaguely at the table. “Before lunch? Yeah, feels a little much.”
I huff out a laugh.
“We’ll see about that,” I tease. “Pretty sure you’ll be feeling it after number three.”
She arches a brow. “Is that a challenge, Brooks?”
“It’s a fact.”
She narrows her eyes to little slits but can’t hide the smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.
I jerk my head toward the growing line. “C’mon. Let’s get in line before the good stuff’s gone.”
She bumps her hip into mine as we walk toward the cups.
“You carrying me back to the room if I fall over?”
I smirk.
“Does a bear shit in the woods?” I reply, my tone cocky. “Only I get the honor of carrying my drunken wife back to the room.”
Her steps falter as the wordwifeleaves my mouth. Her eyes flick up to mine, wide for a moment before she rolls them, trying her best to act unaffected.
“Don’t start,” she quips, playfully shoving my arm. “It’s too early.”
“Whatever you say,Mrs. Brooks.”
This time, instead of rolling those doe eyes, she tugs her bottom lip between her teeth, trying like hell to fight the smile she doesn't want me to see.
Shot One
The first bottle we choose from is clear as water but seems to be a crowd favorite.
The host pours a shot into each of our tiny cups and slides them across the table.
“Starting light?” she says brightly. “Good idea. This one’s smooth.”
We grin and thank the host before stepping aside.
“It literally looks like water,” Meadow mutters, holding the shot up to her eyes and squinting.
“That’s how they get you,” I reply. “Before you know it, you’ll be on your ass.”
