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She laughed again, the sound beautiful. George winked at her before attending to other customers, and I couldn’t help but feel irritated.
“Nickname is also a perfect description for my ugly mug, too.”
I’d had my fair share of boot spikes raked down my face in rugby scrums over the years. I was no oil painting. I had scars from stitches on my eyebrow and jaw, and my nose had been broken twice.
Her eyes roamed my face and I felt my cheeks burn under her scrutiny.
“I don’t think your scars make you beastly.”
I cleared my throat. “Now ye’ve finished the twelve-year-old, would you like tae try this?” I waved to the bottle George left behind. “It’s a new recipe from Gallanach. Special bartender tasting, not available for sale.”
“I’d love to.” Her voice was low and husky again. My brain short-circuited. I discreetly adjusted myself as I slid a glass to her and I held up mine.
“Tae meeting strangers in bars.”
We clinked glasses. “To meeting beasts in bars.”
Delight bubbled up inside me. “So, you’ve decided I’m not a Gaston?”
She smiled, holding my gaze. “That question is still under consideration.”
“You’re certainly a beauty.”
I watched her sip the whisky. Instead of accepting the compliment, she pulled a face.
“Oh, that is… well, disappointing.”
At first, I thought she meant me but it was worse: she was talking about the whisky. My whisky.
“The flavour is different, like they changed the peat maybe?” Her nose wrinkled. “No, wait. It’s… something isn’t right with that one.”
I bristled. The five-year-old was my personal recipe. Finest quality ingredients were sourced for the production. And less than two weeks ago, it had tasted magnificent, straight from the oak barrel.
“Taint.” She raised an eyebrow. “Cork taint. I’m sure of it.”
“The five-year-old is vastly superior tae the twelve,” I argued. The Look settled over my features.
“It is not,” she replied, oblivious to the power of The Look. “Definitely affected by cork taint.”
“Perhaps your palette is clouded by your lipstick,” I retorted. “Or the glass is dirty.”
She straightened, holding out her drink, flicking her gorgeous hair off one shoulder. I couldn’t help but watch the movement. I clenched my fingers around my glass, itching to run them through her golden mane.
“While I prefer my whisky served in crystal, the glass is clean. And, my lipstick isn’t clouding my opinion on taste.”
Someone bumped into the back of her bar stool. A tiny amount of whisky spilled over the edge of her tumbler, down her fingers and onto her knee. I instinctively reached out and cupped her hand to steady her drink.
My hand wrapped around hers: all I felt was fire.
Her eyes locked on mine.
What would my whisky taste like on her lips, her fingers?Other places?
I let her go with a sharp intake of breath and handed her a napkin from a stack on the bar.
“Thank you,” she murmured.
I couldn’t help but stare as she dabbed at the spilt whisky, twice on her knee and then once on her inner thigh.
