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I don’t care. I’mdonecaring. I’m biding my time, going to get along and then get the fuck out of here as soon as humanly possible.
Plus, if he drinks enough, he’ll pass out and I won’t have to deal with him.
Win-win.
And, frankly, I can use a little more alcohol.
Maybe then his cold eyes, his sharp words won’t sting quite so much.
Ugh. I turn back to the counter, grab my own glass, and take a big glug, remind myself of the mantra I have been repeating in my head for the last five minutes.
Ever since he caught my camera.
Ever since my heart gave a little flutter at the quick movements. Because he saved my life catching that—or at least my future employment options—
It doesn’t matter.
Hedoesn’t matter.
Everyone say it with me—
He. Doesn’t.Matter.
He shifts on his feet, passing the glass to his other hand as he lifts it to his nose, inhales deeply. “Rosemary in a drink?”
I shrug. “It’s good.” Smiling, I’m determined to hang on to my good mood as I add, “Something you would know if you tried it.”
He holds my stare as he slowly brings the glass to his lips, tips it up, throat working, Adam’s apple bobbing, the strong cords in his neck mimicking those in his forearms.
Strong.
Muscled.
Man.
My pussy throbs, remembering those thick fingers inside me, fucking me steadily to orgasm.
I lift my own glass, start chugging, barely tasting my careful mix of honey and lemon, ginger beer and vodka, the hint of earthiness from the rosemary. It would be better if I made a simple syrup with the honey and a few sprigs of the herb, letting that freshness resound brightly in the drink.
But…that whole needing-alcohol-in-my-system thing.
Only when a cube of ice hits my front teeth, the sprig of rosemary I put as garnish inside falling forward to hit my face, sending droplets of the concoction scattering along my cheek, do I realize I chugged so quickly that I’ve drank it all.
Perfect.
I have a reason to ignore him again.
And maybe this time I’ll make that simple syrup, if only to pass the time.
And to get away from those piercing hazel eyes.
I start rotating toward the sink—
“This is good.”
I lift my brows. “No kidding.” I move back to the counter, to the sink and the remaining half of a lemon, the rosemary and honey, the ginger beer bubbling in its can, the bottle with the pretty etching in its neck—conifers and the outline of a mountain—its label blue with silver writing declaring it Lake Vodka.
I thought that it was referring to Lake Tahoe, to the deep blue water, to the huge body of water hidden in the mountains.
