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She poured, stirred, shook, and enjoyed the music and the show.
It did surprise her when Miles walked in—and didn’t look out of place among the tuxes and gowns in his casual shirt and jeans.
She credited the invisible suit.
“I’m sorry, sir, this is a private event.”
He glanced behind her at the few remaining bottles of champagne on ice in silver tubs.
“How many of those did you go through?”
“Including the table bottles, you could round it up to a hundred. The signature Bellini and straight champagne were popular. The Aviations came in a distant third, by my estimates, behind the champagne and beer.”
“Sunglasses or pilots?”
“It’s a drink, Miles.”
On cue, the best man—sans jacket, tie, and waistcoat—came up to the bar.
“How’s it going, Morgan?”
“It’s going great, Trevor. Another round for you and Darcie?”
“You got it. Best party ever. I’ll be back for the drinks. Gotta dance!”
“You know that guy?” Miles asked.
“I do now. He and the groom—that’s Hank, the one out there with the crown of flowers on his head—have been friends since grade school.”
She dumped ice into a flute and a martini glass to chill them, thengot out a shaker. “Trevor and Darcie have been an item for about ten months. It’s serious,” she said as she added ice to the shaker.
“An Aviation,” she continued, “or, as one of the two signature cocktails, a Flying High. Gin, lemon juice, maraschino liqueur, and crème de violette.”
As she shook the ingredients, she grabbed a bottle of champagne out of the ice tub. She lifted off the silver stopper, dumped the ice out of the flute.
As Miles watched, she managed to pour the champagne, strain the first drink into the martini glass. She added peach nectar to the champagne and had the drinks on cocktail napkins when Trevor danced back.
“All right!” He dug in his pocket, pulled out a money clip. “Only got twenties left.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Morgan began.
“Nah, you’re worth it.” He stuffed a twenty in the tip jar. “Hey, this your girl?” he asked Miles.
“No.”
“Making a mistake. Best bartender in the universe of bartenders. Plus, hot. Ah, don’t tell Darcie I said that last bit.”
“Lips are sealed,” Morgan assured him. “Fly high, Trevor.”
“Bet your ass!” He took a slug of the Aviation, then carried the drinks off to the dance floor.
“It’s purple. Why is it purple?”
“Violet,” Morgan corrected. “And because of the crème de violette.”
“I get that part, but not why. They’ve got, what, about another fifteen?”
“About.”
