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4
EMERALD
Iwas pretty sure I’d seen this on a true crime show once. Empty building, guy lures you to the backroom… My internal alarms should have been going off like crazy. Instead, I was wondering what I could get away with in the back room with him.
“My order form,” he said as we passed sinks, a prep table, and a bunch of shelves full of supplies.
We walked through a door into a tiny office that had nothing but a chair and a desk that was covered in paperwork. He gestured for me to sit down as he opened a laptop that rested on the corner of that desk.
“Let me grab another chair,” he said.
He looked around and rushed out while I sat staring blankly at the laptop screen. Were we actually doing paperwork? That was not at all what I’d had in mind when I followed him back here.
“Here we go,” he said, announcing his return.
The chair he was carrying came from the dining room. He plopped it down next to me, settling in so close, his scent once again surrounded me. If we were going to have to do paperwork, at least I could enjoy it a little.
“We have a limited budget for liquor,” he said.
He leaned forward and tapped on the mousepad, bringing the screen to life. On it was indeed an order form, as if it’d just been waiting for us to arrive.
“If you had to pick only three liqueurs, which would you choose?
I chose three from the list. “There are plenty of drinks you can make with those. Do you do shooters?”
“Not here.” He laughed. “We don’t exactly get that type of customer here. But some of the women at the bar in Boone like to get drunk on those fancy shots.”
He looked over at me then and my heart started pounding furiously. Everything about him was a turn-on, from the sparkle in those blue-gray eyes to the dimple in his chin. I wanted to run my hand over his stubble as I climbed on top of him—
No. Keep your mind out of the gutter.
“Have you heard of a cement mixer?” I blurted, eager to say anything that would shift my mind onto the right track.
That question brought a smile to his face. “Is that the gag where you have someone drink Irish cream and lime, then laugh as it turns to cottage cheese in their mouths? Yeah, the bartender got some girls good one night with that one.”
“Girls?” I asked.
“Women,” he rushed to correct. “They were young.”
Those words were like a punch in my gut. I assumed they were old enough to drink—so at least twenty-one, which was my age. They were too young for him, though. That was bad news.
“So, you don’t like younger women?” I crossed my arms over my chest, surprised at how flirty that came out.
“I usually don’t.” His gaze lowered to my chest. Was that deliberate? “But…”
My eyebrows arched. “But?”
“You’re twenty-two or twenty-three, right?”
More bad news. He thought I was older than I was.
“Twenty-one,” I said.
I watched his reaction carefully, waiting for disgust or disappointment. That didn’t happen. Instead, he simply studied me.
“You’re a woman, though,” he said. “Experienced. It’s different.”
I shook my head. “I’m experienced with making drinks. I’ve won competitions, I’ve traveled, I’ve met a lot of people, but I’m not experienced. Not in the way guys like you mean.”
