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“I’d like to buy you a drink,” he purred, his voice a soft, husky rumble with a hint of an Irish accent. It sounded exactly as I’d imagined it would, only better. I was so taken that I found myself hanging onto every syllable with bated breath before I remembered myself. I’d always been a sucker for Irish men. In the past, I’d considered it a weakness. Right now, though, it wasn’t my head I was thinking with.
“You’d like to buymea drink?” I repeated, raising my brow. I wanted to see if he knew me, or knew of my name since he was the one that had come into my family’s pub.
“Yes,” he replied, his voice as smooth and as luxurious as silk.
“I guess I can allow that,” I replied.
His gaze never wavered from mine, challengingly direct in an invigorating sort of way.
I knew the persona I gave off to strangers, and to be honest, I didn’t give a shit. In the days where we were first establishing ourselves here in the city, people used to whisper behind my back, thinking I couldn’t hear them, but I had listened to every word. They’d called me an ice queen, bitch, Murphy cunt, the works. It didn’t matter, because at the end of the day, they would answer to me, either with respect or a well-placed bullet from my weapon.
I didn’t prefer either one.
Over the years, those whispered comments were uttered less and less, my position in the family more well-known and much better understood. I was proud of myself for that.
“What do you like to drink?”
“A martini. Angus knows how I like them,” I answered, smirking.
The bartender, Angus, was Scottish, but I didn’t hold that against him. He made a good drink, and that more than made up for it. He’d been working for us for a long time, and he’d grown to know the family so well that we usually didn’t have to tell him what we wanted anymore. He could generally figure it out just by the look on our faces.
It was a nice perk of coming here to have a drink. Plus, we were already buying the booze anyway. Why not enjoy it?
“And how do you like them?” the stranger pressed.
“Top shelf. Seriously shaken. Downright filthy,” I said smugly.
If my flirty response surprised him, he had enough self-control to keep it in check, which was extraordinary, really. I hadn’t had the chance to verbally spar with a man who could keep up in a long time.
So far, he was checking several of my boxes. Time would tell if he could fill them all, but I didn’t have much hope for that.
Angus’ brown eyes slid from mine to the stranger sitting next to me. He raised a single eyebrow, wanting to make sure this was acceptable behavior, and that this man wasn’t making me uncomfortable.
“Make it extra filthy tonight, Angus.” I winked and he smirked, getting the message loud and clear.
His protective vibe was sweet, but I was more than capable of taking care of myself. I watched as he got to work, pulling a bottle of Ciroq off the top shelf, dry vermouth, and a heaping amount of olive brine. He poured it all in a metal shaker, then shook it over his shoulder until the metal turned cool and frosty. He strained the liquid into a martini glass and prepped a garnish of five delicious green olives.
He slid it in front of me and I wrapped my fingers around the glass, taking a small sip.
“I think you outdid yourself this time, Angus,” I said with a grin.
“Just for you, Ada,” he replied curtly. He bowed his head and quickly turned away to serve another customer, leaving me to my own devices.
“That’s a pretty name,” the man beside me purred.
“You haven’t told me yours,” I replied, my tone frigidly calculating.
“Shane,” he answered simply. His confidence shone as he stared me down. I swallowed at his muted challenge, not knowing how to handle his apparent boldness in competition with my own. I wasn’t yet certain he could handle mine.
“Are you new in town?” I asked. It would explain why he didn’t know me. Maybe it was by chance that he’d walked in here and sat down next to one of the owners of the cool pub he’d walked by tonight. Maybe he was bored and had a flight out the next day, and his sole mission was to get laid before he left for the airport in the morning.
Who knows. It was sort of fun to try to figure it out, though.
“I know Boston, or at least I used to. I’ve been away for a long while, a good seven years now at least, so it’s a little bit different than I remember,” he answered.
“Is this home for you now, or are you just here for travel?”
“This will be my home now,” he answered. He raised a finger expectantly to catch Angus’ attention. The bartender finished the drink he was making with a flourish, served it, and then slid over to us in an impressively short amount of time.
