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“You shouldn’t make promises like that before you know the level of dirt I’m about to dish out.”
I laugh softly. “Something tells me that you won’t be selling Delora out tonight. There is no dirt, is there?”
He holds both hands up as though he’s surrendering to me. “No dirt, but I can tell you how to handle her in a way that will make you her star employee.”
We’re interrupted when Rolly arrives with our drinks. I thank him with an added smile because I know how it feels when a person doesn’t acknowledge the crafter of their beverage.
He thanks me for thanking him before he wanders off toward a man who just sat down at the opposite end of the bar.
Sean picks up the glass in front of him and takes a small sip. His eyes close. I can’t tell if that’s from disgust or delight.
“Not bad,” he murmurs. “This isn’t half bad.”
I clear my throat. “Maybe I don’t want to know how to handle Delora. Maybe I want to prove myself based solely on my merit.”
Sean swallows his second taste of his Tom Collins. “Maybe I’m impressed by that.”
Pride blooms inside of me from that admission, although I don’t know why. Is it because he’s my boss, or because he’s not only gorgeous, he’s fun and successful?
“Are you a scotch convert?” I ask as he raises the glass to his mouth again.
It stalls there, pressed against his bottom lip.
I tear my gaze away because staring at his mouth isn’t what I should be doing.
“Too soon to tell.” He laughs. “We’ll need to meet again to continue this experiment.”
Is he asking me out on a date?
I play dumb, hoping to lure more details of his intentions from him. “What experiment?”
His index finger rims his glass. “I like this, but I have a feeling that you make it better. If you’re still holding onto that job at Tin Anchor, let me know when your next shift is, and I’ll drop by to taste your Tom.”
A smile plays on my lips. “I’ll do that, Saint.”
Chapter Twenty
Sean
I pickup a little pink dress and wave it in the air. “What about this?”
Graham Locke, my friend, and a soon-to-be girl dad, smiles. “I already bought that one for her.”
This is the tenth time he’s shot down my proposed gift for his baby girl in the past twenty minutes.
I approach where he’s standing next to a display of children’s books.
We’re in a baby boutique on the Upper East Side. Who the hell knew a place like this even existed with its tiny cutesy clothes and gadgets for hiding stacks of diapers?
I feel like I stepped onto another planet when we walked in here after having lunch a block over.
“What haven’t you bought?” I question him.
He rakes a hand through his dark brown hair. “Let me think.”
I toss out my original idea for a baby gift. “I’m going to get that custom onesie made that I was telling you about.”
Onesie.
