5. Mallory
Warm breath skates over the bare skin of my shoulder as an unmistakable presence, and the familiar cologne of a certain tall, dark, playful bachelor floats on the air, as I wait in line at the patio bar.
“Bet you can’t stump the bartender.”
The delicious, low voice tightens the curl of desire in my belly. The one that appeared when Carson, sporting a tailored, crisp gray suit with a silver silk tie, his dark unruly hair wild, offered me his arm at the top of the stairs this afternoon before the ceremony, with a simple, “You look stunning.”
It continued when, throughout the ceremony and especially during the exchange of vows, his eyes barely strayed from me. I’m unsure why, considering I turned down his offer of a walk down by the lake last night. Maybe, it’s the chase, and he’s doubling down because he’s not used to women saying no.
But now that the photos are done and we have a few minutes to enjoy the cocktail hour, my plan to resist the pull of this man, even if we are just Carson and Mallory for the weekend, is dissolving before my eyes. I know I shouldn’t fall even further under his spell, shouldn’t let his innocent playfulness and our ridiculous agreement distract me from the fact he’s still the Vice President of the city’s largest media company.
But for a million reasons I can’t quite explain, I scan the array of bottles on display behind the bartender, fully aware that by accepting his challenge to stump the bartender, I’m in this now with Carson. Whatever this is. At least, it’s only for the weekend.
“What are we playing for this time?”
There’s a whisper of a chuckle as we inch forward, with only one guest in line ahead of me as Carson slips to my side. “What would you like the stakes to be?”
I don’t have a good answer, so instead of answering his question, I shoot him a sidelong smile and return to the challenge he tossed out. “You do remember I was a sorority girl in my undergrad days, don’t you?”
His palm flies to his chest.
“You think I buy into stereotypes like that?” But mock offense dances in his eyes and he’s fighting a smile.
“Why do I get the feeling you don’t mind losing?”
“I don’t mind losing to you,” he corrects quickly. “There’s a difference.”
I hold his gaze, now deadly serious. I shouldn’t ask. I’d be better off not opening that can of worms, but I can’t help it. “And why, pray tell, is that?”
It’s a beat until he opens his mouth, but before he can answer, the woman in front of me turns to go and the bartender greets us. “What can I get for you two?”
I spin and place both hands flat on the bar, offering the uniformed man with a thick beard a smile. “How about a Bend Over Shirley?”
His bushy eyebrows knot while at my side, Carson hides a muffled cough behind a fist.
“Come again?”
“A Bend Over Shirley. Have you ever heard of that?”
“Can’t say that I have.”
“No problem,” I purr, relishing my win. “It’s just a Dirty Shirley with Raspberry Vodka, which, I’m glad to see, you have on hand tonight.” I gesture to the bottle of ruby-red alcohol.
“Hand-crafted raspberry vodka lemonade is one of the signature cocktails of the evening,” he explains, reaching for a glass.
“You don’t say,” I breathe, leaning on the bar.
“You knew that, didn’t you?” Carson murmurs, sidling up next to me with an air of suspicion.
I lift a shoulder, brushing it against his. “I may have had an idea, but that doesn’t mean I wasn’t successful.”
“No,” Carson agrees, “this time, the point goes to you.”
“And why is it you don’t mind losing to me?” I ask again, curious to hear his answer.
“Because with you,” he replies, holding my gaze, “even when I lose, I win.”
The bartender sets my drink on a cocktail napkin in front of me on the bar.
“Enjoy,” he says as he drops a maraschino cherry into the glass. The sight of the lush red fruit and its long stem gives me an idea. So when he turns to Carson and says, “What can I get you?” I reply for him.
“Actually, my friend here will have a Bend Over Shirley, too.”
The eyes under the bartender’s bushy eyebrows flit between us, but Carson holds up his hands with a smile. “If that’s what the lady’s ordering for me, I’ll take it.”
The bartender reaches for another glass. “Of course.”
“I’m not really a raspberry vodka kind of guy,” Carson murmurs at my side.
I spin to face him. “I’m not really a pretend I’m someone else for the weekend kind of girl, but there’s a first time for everything.”
He stills. An enigmatic smile curls the corner of his lips. It piques my curiosity but also spells bad news. Then, with a mysterious expression, he leans closer. “I couldn’t agree more.”