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“This isn’t about me, Wren,” he says with a sudden calm that only makes me more furious. “This is about you putting yourself in danger after I forbid it.”
“Oh, fuck you!” The retort springs free before I can stop it. I clamp my hand over my mouth, the shock of what I’ve said cooling some of the anger his comment inspired.
Sigurd’s lips twitch as he stares me down. “If you’d like.”
My face burns hotter than a torch, and I scoot away until the arm of the sofa bites into my side. Dang my whiskey-loosened tongue, saying something so foolish. “You don’t even know me.”
“Perhaps I’d like to.” His arm drapes across the back of the sofa, as if he suddenly decided to settle down and stay a while.
I roll my eyes. Fine, if he wants to play… “Hi, I’m Wren Dawson, and I’m a bartender.”
“A what?”
“Bartender.”
He only blinks at me.
I cock my head to the side. “You don’t have bartenders here?” I shift in my seat. What kind of backward place is this? “I make drinks for people.” I swirl the last drops of liquid in my glass for emphasis. “It’s my job. What I do. How I make money.”
“You make drinks for people,” he echoes, as if he must have heard me wrong.
“Yep.” I paste on my best blinding smile.
“I see you found my collection.” He eyes my glass, one dark brow lifting. “Make me a drink?”
Why not? I need a refill anyway. I don’t ask what he wants. He’s going to get whatever I serve him, king or not. His fault for not being specific.
I bring him a glass, the twin of mine.
“Whiskey. Neat,” I say as I pass him the drink with a curtsy that almost has me falling on my backside.
“You just poured it into a glass.”
The whiskey sloshes dangerously close to the edge of my glass as I plop onto the sofa. “Yep. Not my fault you didn’t say what you wanted.”
His head falls back against the cushion as laughter booms into the quiet space. It’s deep and rich, the kind that sinks into the soul like dark chocolate and makes you beg for more. I bite my lip, holding in the grin trying to break free.
Sigurd reins in his humor and sips at the drink. All I can think of is what it would be like to taste the whiskey on his lips.
“Humans pay you to do this?” he asks.
The fluttering feeling in my chest stops instantly. “Yes, in fact, they do.” I notch my chin higher. “Some people love a simple, well-aged drink all on its own. Many more, though, prefer a beer in a chilled mug with just the right amount of foam.” I measure the height with my fingers. “Or an old fashioned with the perfect little twirl of orange peel. I’m pretty darn good at those, if I do say so myself. And of course, there’s the conversation. Having a drink alone is…well, lonely. No one wants that. Half the time, people come just for someone to talk to.”
He sips his drink again and leans in. “And do you scowl at them all too?”
My lips press thin. “I do not.”
I gasp as he tips up my chin, his thumb brushing across my skin. His lips quirk up in one corner. “Just me then.”
“Yes.” It’s a throaty whisper. “You deserve it.”
“I suppose I do.” I shiver and pull away from his touch. He settles back onto his side, though he still seems far too close. “So, Wren the bartender who was drinking alone, you must be lonely and in want of company?”
A pleasant burn settles in my throat with the whiskey.Lonely, I—
“You said you care for your grandmother?” he asks.
Gran.My chest squeezes.
