Page 3 of Recovering Ivy

Ivy

I was tired. Tired of living a lie. Tired of men. Tired of life in general.

“Another?” the bartender asked, nodding toward the gin and tonic in front of me.

“Please,” I answered, then added, “The Botanist,” reminding the overworked man of the type of gin I preferred.

“How could I forget?” The bartender winked.

I fought back the urge to roll my eyes at the man. He’d tried his hardest all evening to flirt and use whatever cheesy pickup line he could to hit on me, but he was shit out of luck. I was over men. They were liars. I’d yet to meet a man that knew the truth if it smacked him in the face, starting with my father and up until and including my current boss.

Today he’d driven me to drink. Normally I’d go home to my shitty one-bedroom loft apartment, order in, and plot my revenge. I was almost there, too. All of the information I needed was falling into place. Another few months… I’d be golden, and he’d finally be behind bars.

A man slid onto the stool next to me at the same time the bartender reappeared, placing my fresh drink in front of me.

“A Botanist and tonic for the beautiful lady.” This time I didn’t stop my eyes from rolling. “What can I get you?” I noted the flirtatious tone had left the bartender’s voice when he asked the person next to me for their order.

“Actually, I’ll have what she’s having.” The man’s voice was thick like honey and the sound sent chills racing up my spine, leaving certain parts tingling. “A woman who knows her gin.”

A full body shiver took the place of the goose bumps, and for a moment I thought about dusting the cobwebs off my girly parts. I’d yet to turn in the man’s direction and when I did, it was too late to stop the dirty thoughts from further taking hold. If I thought his voice was sexy, it had nothing on the man himself. Holy smokes! He was hot; movie star good-looking. Jet black hair and heart-stopping blue eyes. If the smirk on his face was anything to go by, my reaction to him was commonplace.

The longer I stared at the man, the more uncomfortable I became. The look had gone well beyond a cursory glance straight to gawking.

“I’m Zane,” he said and offered his hand.

Not wanting to be rude, I placed my hand in his and the moment they touched an electrical current zapped my hand and I quickly pulled away.

“Ouch!”

“Sorry.” Zane chuckled. “I didn’t mean to shock you. It’s windy out there,” he told me by way of explanation. I wasn’t sure if it was static electricity or if it was some sexy-man-current that naturally ran through his body.

“That’s okay.” I turned back to my drink and took a large unladylike gulp, suddenly wanting to finish my drink and settle my tab. There was something extremely unnerving about Zane and his sapphire eyes. When he looked at me I felt naked, like he could see through my carefully built fortress. Which was crazy, he was just being polite introducing himself.

The bartender set Zane’s drink down and placed a bowl of mixed nuts between us. Zane dipped his hand in and took out a handful before tossing a few into his mouth.

“I can’t believe you just did that,” I said.

“Did what?” he asked after he’d swallowed.

“Ate nuts out of the bowl. Do you know how many germs are in that bowl? It’s like a science experiment. Most people don’t wash their hands after they use the bathroom, then they come out and touch the bowl. You just ate piss nuts.”

“Piss nuts?” He snickered.

“Yes. And that’s better than calling them yeast nuts, which I totally could. You never know what germs people have on their hands.”

I watched as Zane threw his head back and roared with laughter, transforming an already gorgeous man to downright captivating.

“Fuck, you’re funny.” He smiled, complete with dimples. Sweet Christ, the man was lethal. He took a sip of his drink and continued, “Damn, I always forget how much I like The Botanist—infused with juniper and heather.”

“I’ve never met anyone who drinks it. I only discovered it a few years ago when I visited the distillery where it’s made,” I told him.

“You’ve been to Islay?”

“I have. I think it’s you who knows their gin.”

“Actually, I know my whisky. Discovering the gin was a byproduct of a visit to Bruichladdich where it’s distilled.”

“Me, too. I’ve been there.” I eyed him with skepticism. “You sure you’ve been there? This isn’t just some pickup attempt, is it?”