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“I’ll take it, then,” the woman says. She lists a little to one side, and I realize she’s drunk. Normally I can spot them more easily than that.
Gabe makes eye contact with the man holding on to her.
The man nods. “I’ve got her.”
“We’re on our second honeymoon,” the woman says. “I was knocked up the first time and kept puking.”
Now I’m the one meeting Gabe’s amused gaze. “Is that so?” I say in my perfect bartender blend of mild interest and an edge that doesn’t encourage details.
Gabe deftly adds a juice mix to the middle, pineapple-orange, if I had to guess, then stirs a jigger of green Midori with a half shot of vodka. I knew it.
“I like this part,” the woman says, leaning onto the bar.
Gabe holds a bar spoon over the drink, using the spiral handle to slowly ease the Midori mixture onto the juice to avoid mixing.
I can do it with a cherry. It’s a spectacular trick and not nearly so lazy.
“Lazy?” Gabe’s head snaps up.
Uh-oh. I said it out loud. This is one of my worst habits, sending thoughts that should be silent straight out of my mouth.
Everyone at the bar is looking at me.
I fold my hands together primly, as if I never meant to cause a fuss. “You can use a cherry to layer the liquors.” Might as well double down. “It’s a beginner’s trick to use the bar spoon.”
Gabe’s face darkens like a cartoon character about to shoot smoke out of his ears. He pushes the glass toward me and slams the bottle of blue curaçao on the bar. “Show me.”
“I need a cherry.” I lift my eyebrow to drive the double entendre home.
The drunk woman does it for me. “Won’t find many of those around here!” she cackles.
Gabe lifts a bowl from below the bar. It’s piled high with cherries, all stemless.
I suppress my sigh. “I’ll need one with a stem so I can hold it.”
Gabe grunts and pulls out a jar of cherries and dumps a few on top of the others. These still have their stems.
“And I have sandy hands.”
He drops a container of antibacterial wipes onto the bar. Damn, he’s an angry one. But I knew that. He charged the wedding like a small-town sheriff about to bust some punk kids spray-painting the water tower.
I tug a wipe from the plastic jug and take my time cleaning my fingers. His eyes go as fiery as they did when I challenged him earlier.
I like this. I like it a lot. Poking bears is one of my favorite pastimes.
I pick up the bottle of blue curaçao like I’m going to dump it straight in and wait for his self-satisfied smirk. He thinks I’m stupid.
I speak to the patrons, who are all watching. “Of course, you can’t simply pour blue curaçao on top of Midori and vodka. It’s too heavy and will mix. Water, please? And a glass?”
He frowns. Ha. He thought he had me.
I stir the blue liquor with water in the glass. Then I use the cherry to slow the flow so the mixture lies neatly on top of the green. For an extra flourish, I quickly sink the cherry, making the color stream through the other layers in a streak of blue.
The bar patronsoooooand clap.
Nice.
I smile at them, then turn to see Gabe’s murderous look. Now I feel bad. I’ve shown him up in his own bar. I wouldn’t like it if someone did that to me.
