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Bren picks up one of the bottles and reads the label. “The bar thinking about carrying this variety of tequila?”
“Well, the distillery is toying with the idea of distributing in the U.S. They already export their main line, but this is an exclusive reserve batch. They drummed up some press to local businesses to gauge interest, but it’s far from settled. But this is some of the best tequila I’ve ever tasted, so I will definitely consider carrying it if they do open up their market for the Yoali line of reserve tequila.”
“You?”
“Me what?”
“You’re considering carrying it? I guess I didn’t realize you were like a manager or anything like that. I’m surprised you can decide that kind of thing.”
I throw my head back with laughter. Somehow, over the multiple arguments Bren and I have gotten into, I’d forgotten he thinks I’m a waitress. There would be nothing wrong with being a waitress, but the fact that it bothers him bothers me.
“Try the tequila, Bren,” I say to shut him up. I sniff my glass, enjoying the aroma before taking half the shot. I close my eyes, feeling that familiar heat radiate from my stomach through my bloodstream. When I open my eyes, Bren is setting his glass down and twisting his face. I laugh again.
“You’re not a tequila man?” I ask.
“I am.”
“You didn’t seem to enjoy that.”
“What’s there to enjoy? I mean, I enjoy the effects of it, but the flavor is awful—”
“What? It’s not! You’re missing it. You didn’t taste the crisp agave flavor with a hint of citrus?”
Bren shakes his head. “I tasted Drano.”
“You’re breaking my heart, Brenner Reindhart.”
I pour us each half a shot from the second bottle of reposado. “This one is aged just a little bit. The flavor profile is a bit more complex.”
Because it is a reposado, I sip that second shot and savor it. Bren takes his shot like a bullet and slams the glass on the bar, twisting his face again.
“I’m guessing you didn’t taste the flavor profile of that one either?”
Bren shakes his head.
“You’re missing out. It was lovely. A little bit of grapefruit and silky caramel finish.”
“All I got was Drano,” he teases.
“A stab to the heart, Bren.”
“Sorry,” he says.
“Okay, this next one I genuinely believe is the best tequila in the world. If you can’t enjoy this one, you’re a lost cause, my friend.”
“No pressure, Sofia.” Bren’s lips spread into a crooked smile that heats my core more than the tequila. I’ve never wanted a man a second time. I’ve never wanted to get to know a man beyond his physical body. But sitting across from Bren while he listens to me geek out about my passion is comfortable in a way I’m not used to. A way I like. A way I want more of.
Before I pour the tequila from the last bottle, I think better of it.
“This one is an añejo, aged several years in whiskey barrels. You should get hints of cocoa, spice, and oak with a smooth vanilla finish.”
“I’ll do my very best to pay attention,” Bren says.
“Lean your head back,” I order.
“What?”
Instead of pouring into the glasses, I bring the bottle to my lips and take a healthy sip into my mouth, holding it there. I stand and hop onto Bren’s lap, then kneel over his powerful thighs. He doesn’t so much as grunt from my weight.
