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“Alcohol. There’s alcohol in it.”
“You’re one ofthosebartenders.” I take another drink and swish it around in my mouth. “Whiskey.” Another sip. “Southern Comfort?”
He stares at me, unblinking.
“Seriously?” I curl my lips around the straw, our eye contact steady, and take another sip. “Definitely SoCo and orange juice.”
He slightly nods while grinning. “A girl knows her whiskey.”
“A girl knows her whiskey.” I take another drink and raise a brow. “Gin?”
“Possibly.”
“Definitely gin. What else am I missing?”
“If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”
“Oh God, never say that around me again. Your age is showing. Myfathersays that.”
He throws out his arms. “Hey, everyone fucking says that!”
I hold my glass in the air. “Keep these bad boys coming, bartender. By the end of the night, I’ll figure out the entire ingredient list. Maybe I’ll even throw in some tips to make it better.”
The bar is packed, but he’s not taking orders from anyone. He holds up a finger when they call his name, his eyes drinking me in as if I were his cocktail. Satisfaction hits me, and my cheeks blush. I’m the one who’s holding his attention.
“Consider yourself special because I made you that drink. That’s normally not my style.” He rubs his hands together. “Now, I’d love to continue this guessing game, but customers are waiting. Go drink and enjoy your night.”
I frown, not wanting to leave him. I grab my drink, but he stops me from turning around.
“One more thing, Jailbait.”
My knees weaken when he comes closer. Mere inches separate us. I inhale his scent—cinnamon and spice—and nearly die when he drops his head, his lips brushing my ear.
“Tell me, birthday girl,” he whispers.
I gulp.Do not fall on your ass. Breathe.“What?” I stammer.
“Who is the dude at the table behind you, shooting me a murderous glare? Does he know you came here for me?”
My nails dig into the bar, ruining my fresh manicure, and I shiver as something rushes through me that shouldn’t—desire.
I was so hooked on Maliki that I forgot about Devin. I hate that I lose our contact when I peek back at Devin. His jaw is clenched, and his eyes are fixed on us.
Shit.
He invited himself tonight. We’re each other’s exclusive booty calls—not hooking up with other people yet not sharing love devotions.
I shrug, glancing back to Maliki. “He’s kinda, sorta my boyfriend.”
“Kinda, sorta?” he questions. “How the fuck is someone kinda, sorta your boyfriend?”
“I mean … we haven’t made anything official.”
“Some words of advice, Sierra: a man who wants you will never let you say he’s kinda, sorta your boyfriend.” He catches my chin and swipes his thumb over my lower lip. “This is on me, Jailbait. Go dump your kinda, sorta boyfriend and have yourself a great fucking birthday.”
4
Sierra
