Page 10 of Grim Tidings

His mouth closes with a snap, and he grabs his beer. He wanders off with a dark look tossed over his shoulder.

“My Shirley Temples aren’t a downgrade,” Frank offers, looking far too chipper. His crossword is back in his coat pocket and his chin is in his hand. “You make a fine drink, young man.”

“Young man,” I mumble under my breath. “I don’t feel like a young man.”

I feel every day of my miserable existence, pressing down against my shoulders like cinder blocks. I’m a look-on-the-bright-side kind of guy by nature, but I don’t know. Lately it’s been hard to summon the energy.

Maybe I should think about a new job. One where I’m not around so many … people. Where there aren’t so many responsibilities clinging to my coattails. Where I’m not one mistake away from something I can’t come back from.

Where I can rest.

Frank tips sideways on his stool, glancing around me to the other side of the bar. “What’s her name?”

I slice a fresh lemon, barely avoiding taking a chunk of my thumb with it. “I don’t know.”

Frank is delighted. “You’re not very good at this, are you?”

“I’m just fine, thanks.” I wedge my cocktail shaker together and give it a good toss. The ice rattles against the tin. “All I’m doing is making her a drink. You can stop with the commentary.”

He plucks another cherry out of his glass and tosses it in his mouth, narrowing his eyes as he studies me. I keep shaking the glass, holding eye contact. I’ve seen a lot scarier things than a seventy-eight-year-old man with wispy gray hair and a well-pressed flannel buttoned to the base of his throat.

“You’re starting to irritate me, Frank.”

He snorts. “Finally. I was starting to think your feathers couldn’t be ruffled.”

I laugh. If he only knew.

“As fun as this was—” I grab the glass and pour the frosty drink. Perfect. “Enjoy your cherries.”

I don’t wait for whatever quip the old man wants to leave me with. I boomerang back to the side of the bar where my mystery girl is and place the glass in front of her. She stares down at it, her mouth twisted to the side.

“This is not a martini.”

I try my hardest not to laugh. She looks like I just slid a grenade on a dainty little dinner plate in front of her. “No, it’s not.”

Her eyes flick up to mine. They’re dark brown, shadowed beneath a heavy fringe of lashes. There’s something lurking there, just beneath the bored expression she’s working so damn hard to keep on her face, but she masks it quickly.

She tiptoes her fingers around the base of the glass. “I like to know what I’m drinking.”

“It’s a sidecar.”

The cutest little quirk forms between her eyebrows. “You say that like I should know what it means.”

“Cognac,” I explain with a laugh. “With some orange liqueur and a little lemon. Ah. Hold on a sec.” I reach behind the bar and grab a sugared orange peel, placing it over the rim. “There you go.”

She blinks. “Do I eat that?”

“If you want.”

The longer she stares at the glass in front of her, the more my confidence wavers.

“At least try it before you claim your victory.”

She picks up the glass, her hold awkward, then brings it to her mouth. Her bottom lip skims the rim, and her eyes flick up to mine, wide and fathomless. My hands flex against the bar top. It’s not overtly seductive and it’s certainly not intentional, but I’m hyper-focused on the plush press of her lips.

I have no idea what it is about this woman that’s making hot anticipation curl at the base of my spine, but I like it. I like the cracks she’s sending down my fault lines.

She pulls the glass away. “It’s sweet, but also …”