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I hated my reflection. It was cruel to look so much like the person I missed most in the world, my mother. I loved her until the very last moment of her illness, and when she died, my love turned to feigned indifference. I pretended it didn’t hurt to lose her, my mom, my best friend, although it was agony. Every breath I took over the next year proved difficult. My life would never be the same. She was pure sunshine. The person who took care of me when I was sick and made me laugh when I was sad. I depended on her. She was everything to me. And then she was gone.
My eyes trained on my chin, I shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Look at yourself. I mean really look at yourself.” My eyes met my reflection as she asked, “Don’t you see it? Can you even comprehend how attractive you are?”
“I look like my mother,” I whispered.
Nas smiled gently. “I’ll bet she was beautiful.”
She was. “She was lovely.”
“Can you see it?” Nas probed softly. I shook my head. She reached around me to place her fingers under my chin, lifting it, and my reflection was forced into my line of sight. “Look harder.” She moved to stand by my side. “You have elegant cheekbones. Your skin is impeccable and creamy, like porcelain. You have a small, full mouth, which I’ll bet gives men all sorts of naughty ideas.” My blush was intense. “Your hair is smooth and shiny, and dark without being black. Your big green eyes and long lashes make you look exotic and mysterious. And I’m guessing that when you get some weight back on that tiny tight body, you’re going to have curves in all the right places.” She placed her hands on my shoulders and squeezed hard enough to make a point. “You’re lethal, Mina. And you don’t even know it.”
Her speech had me really looking at myself. I never viewed myself as beautiful. I’d always viewed myself as passable, but only just. But as she pointed everything out, bit-by-bit, I supposed it was there. For the first time, I could see it.
“I’m pretty?” I asked carefully, inspecting my reflection.
“Now you’re fishing for compliments.” She groaned as she pushed me to the side, causing me to stumble and laugh. “You little shit.” She chuckled as we went into the bar area.
I winced as soon as my eyes hit the rows of glasses on the counter. “Are you sure you want to do this? Chances are I’m going to drop a glass, accidentally slit my wrist, and die on you.”
Nas tilted her head up in thought. “Hmmm. Yes. That could be a problem.” She shrugged. “Again, a risk I’m willing to take.”
She gathered a bunch of different glasses and pointed to each one as she named them. “Highball. Tumbler. Sifter. Shot. Cocktail. Martini. Wine. Flute.”
“No beer glasses?”
She seemed pleased that I’d noticed. “We are a high class establishment. We do serve imported beers, but you’ll find that majority of our patrons will ask for mixers. Otherwise,”—she reached under the bar to pull out another tall glass from inside the refrigerator—“beer glasses are kept chilled and served with a wedge of lemon, strictly no ice.”
“Chilled. Lemon. No ice.” I nodded. “Got it.”
For the better part of two hours, Nas taught me how to make several of the standard order drinks. She told me it was okay if I forgot what went in which drink then showed me recipe cards for all the drinks she’d taught me to make and more. With each additional drink, my confidence was boosted, and soon enough, I was mixing, muddling and shaking drinks like I was born to do it.
As I finished mixing my last drink of the day, Nas leaned her hip on the bar, looking extremely pleased with herself, and I bowed happily. “Thank you. Thank you. I’ll be here all week.”
An accented voice sounded from behind me. “And with a view like this, who could resist.” When he said ‘this,’ it came out as zis.
I turned to face the man, who was smiling widely over the top of my head to Nastasia. She gasped, ran, and then threw herself into his waiting arms. Laughing, she pulled back and kissed him, smack on the mouth. Cupping his stubbled cheeks, she all but yelled, “Philippe Neige, you son of a gun! And looking hot as always, I see.”
He was hot. Like, smoking.
The man smiled, and the lines around his eyes deepened. He looked to be in his forties, was as tall as Sasha, had dark blond hair, and smiling green eyes. I gathered he was French, not only from his accent, but also from the way Nas said his name. He wore a pair of dark blue jeans. His white shirt was left untucked, and he finished of his polished look with a pair of dark brown loafers.
