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I set it aside. “Let me check. I don’t want you saying I only won the bar brawl because you had a concussion.”
“I’m fine.”
“Bend down!” My voice means business.
He leans over, and my fingers part his hair, searching for a bump or a cut. “Does this hurt?” I ask, poking his head.
“No.” His voice has a squeaky quality, and I realize I’ve pushed his face into my thighs.
I lift him away. “You’ll live.”
He staggers back like he can’t get away fast enough. “Thanks. Will that whiskey do?”
I pick up the bottle and uncork the top. I give it a good sniff. “Maybe.” I pick up the silver jigger and pour a shot.
It goes down like fire and charred caramel. I close my eyes to concentrate on the subtleties of the flavor so I can imagine what will pair well with it for the flavor competition.
“So?” Gabe asks.
“Mmmm. For sure.” When I open my eyes, he’s watching me with all the seriousness of a brain surgeon. “What?” I ask.
“Can you taste better with your eyes closed?”
“Don’t you ever turn down the radio so you can concentrate when you drive?”
“Do you always answer a question with a completely unrelated question?”
I cap the bottle and hop down to wash out the jigger. “Okay, so the only thing I’m missing is a super black liqueur.”
“You could use a coffee liqueur or black vodka.”
I dry my hands on a bar towel. “Do you still have time for a shopping run?”
“Sure. You okay with riding a motorcycle?”
Ooooh. Sexy. “Sure.”
The very idea of seeing the island through his eyes appeals to me. Today might be my only chance to test this thing between us. Once the bar challenge is over, it will be much more obvious if I keep showing up to talk to him.
Nope. It’s all-or-nothing right now. Today. Until the evening shift is over. By then, we’ll either have hit it off or not.
He picks up his keys from the counter and swings them around his finger. “You ready?”
“I think so.”
Gabe ducks under the opening of the hut, and I follow him, waiting while he snaps a padlock on the latch.
We walk opposite the direction of my rental, where the parking lot is lined with bushes. Gabe’s motorcycle stands in a space between the greenery and the building’s back wall. Interesting. It’s like he’s hiding it.
“Trouble with the law?” I ask.
His face contorts with confusion for a minute. “Oh. You mean hiding the bike. Yeah. I only have loading-zone privileges. Normally I park a half mile away.”
He opens the back attachment and passes me a spare helmet.
I shove it on my head. Helmet hair. Great. It’s big, so I have to tighten the strap.
He dons his helmet and throws a leg over the bike. “You ride a motorcycle before?”
