Chapter 8
Harper
As we pull back up to the villa, our hopes are crushed by the recent events.
I realize there is only one thing worse than being stuck in a seaside cabana in a foreign country with a man who kidnapped me from my own wedding.
And that is being stuck in a seaside cabana in a foreign country with a man who kidnapped me and says he did it out of love.
Which, by the way, I don’t know if I buy.
The idea of Asher, my brother’s best friend, a guy I’ve known forever, having feelings for me just seems crazy.
It’s not that I don’t find him attractive; I do. A girl would have to be blind not to find him attractive. But I never thought, in all the years of sideways remarks, cocky smirks and strong silence outside of that, that he was actually looking at me. Really looking at me. It’s wild.
And I’m over it.
As soon as we are back inside the villa, I drop my things and let out a sigh. “This is just awesome,” I say, sitting down on my suitcase. “What are we supposed to do now?”
“Look on the bright side,” Asher says with little to no amusement in his voice.
“The bright side?” I echo. “I’m sorry, but I’m kind of failing to see one right now.”
Asher grabs an apple off the counter and bites into it with a hard crunch.
“That’s because you’re not looking,” he says.
Then he rounds the counter and opens the doors wide open.
“The storm is gone, and we are in paradise. You are on vacation. No job. No outside world worries. Just food, the beach, and a pool. Go for a swim. Go get a tan. Look for seashells.”
“Look for seashells?” I parrot with as much disgust as I can layer into the words. “We are stuck here. Together. Against our will, and you want me to collect seashells?”
Asher bites into the apple again, and with a nod says, “Yeah.”
I get up from the suitcase and stomp over to the kitchen. “I am not going to collect fucking seashells. People collect seashells when they want to remember a trip. I’d rather forget any of this ever happened. What I am going to do is make myself a stiff drink.”
“When in Rome,” Ash says with a wink, and I glare at him.
“Don’t do that,” I warn him.
“Do what?” he asks, casually joining me by the minibar.
“Don’t try to be cute. It doesn’t work.”
I can feel Asher’s eyes on me as I grab all the ingredients I need to whip up a couple of cocktails. He watches with interest as I do it without measuring anything, just smooth, learned motions and intuition.
“Damn,” he says softly.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing. It’s just that for someone who doesn’t drink, you sure know your way around a cocktail bar.”
“First of all, I do drink…sometimes. Second, I don’t have to be a lush to appreciate the art of crafting fine spirits.
Third, desperate times call for desperate measures, and desperate measures call for Sex on the Beach.
Uhh, the drink, not the act,” I say, pointing a stirring spoon at him.
Asher laughs, and I can’t help but smile.
Asher watches as I mix vodka, Peach Schnapps, orange and cranberry juice, and ice in two glasses, garnishing the drinks at the end with an orange slice and a maraschino cherry. I pop a cherry in my mouth just for good measure and hand him his glass.
“You know,” he says as he holds his glass up, “I’m not usually a fruity cocktail man, but I am damn curious about your talents.”
“Drink and be amazed,” I say, and we clink our glasses together. I watch as Ash takes a sip, smacks his lips a couple times, and nods his head, indicating he likes it.
“It’s good, but I’d like to see how you make a whiskey sour,” he says
“Coming right up,” I say, grabbing whiskey, lemon juice, and simple syrup. I add the ingredients to a shaker and ask him, “Up or on the rocks?”
“Rocks, please,” he says. “Orange, no cherry. You can have all the cherries to yourself.”
“You don’t like the taste of cherries?” I ask as I shake the cocktail. “Blasphemous.”
“I didn’t say I don’t like the taste. I just prefer tasting cherries on another’s tongue…”
I feel heat rush to my cheeks as my heart suddenly reminds me of his words. I’m in love with you. Now, I’m questioning whether or not they’re true. I hand him a second drink, and he takes a thoughtful sip before smiling.
“Good,” he says.
“Just good?” I ask.
“I mean, I’d hire you, no questions asked.”
I swallow and smile. I’m not quite sure what’s going on underneath that expression. It’s something foreign and familiar all at the same time, but I decide it’s safer if it’s not on the surface. Then I reroute the conversation.
“I am going to make one of my favorites for you. I do have to warn you though, it’s also fruity,” I say.
“Hit me,” he says, taking a sip of both his drinks before resting his forearms on the table and leaning in.
There’s something about being behind the mini-bar while Ash sits on one of the stools in front of me “ordering” drinks. It feels like a job interview in a way. Ash really is one of the most accomplished restaurant owners in Denver, and making drinks for him feels gratifying.
There’s also something fun about it. Electric almost.
I mix one of the local coconut rums with cranberry juice and shake it before pouring it into another glass. Then, I add a floater of Chambord and slide it over to him.
“And what, pray tell, do you call this?” he asks.
“It’s a Malibu Orchid,” I say as he sniffs it.
“Very sweet and fruity for sure,” he says. “Kind of smells like you.” Ash winks and then takes a sip.
“Too sweet?” I ask while trying to ignore the fact that my heart is bouncing around in my chest.
“Just right, actually,” he says. For a moment, the room is quiet other than the sound of waves crashing and a cover of Dancing in the Moonlight by Jubel and Neimy on the speakers.
“But I’ve yet to order my actual favorite drink from you yet.
” Asher is smiling warmly, maybe from the liquor, maybe from something else, while his finger traces a circle over the rim of one of the glasses.
“Alright. What’s your poison?” I ask.
“A Mezcal Negroni,” he says with a lilt in his voice as if he’s stumped me.
“Ok. You like it smoky?” I ask.
“I do. Think you can handle that?”
I smirk at him and grab the shaker. Then, I proceed to mix the drink, swapping the gin for Mezcal, Campari, and sweet vermouth. I garnish it with an orange peel and slide it past the array of other unfinished drinks and wait.
Asher smells it, swirls it, and takes a sip before smiling and setting it back down. “It’s perfect,” he says. “You really are good at this.”
“It’s just a hobby,” I say as I walk around the bar top and pull up a stool next to him.
“A hobby is something you do for fun. This is a career. A calling. You didn’t get into the food industry to be a waitress, you know that,” he says.
I’m not able to hold back the smile that tugs at my lips. Asher swivels on his chair to face me, his knees brushing mine with the motion.
“I’m opening a new bar. A speakeasy sort of place, and I want a very original menu. It will be the kind of place where people come in and tell the bartenders what mood they’re in and what kind of spirit they like, and then the bartender whips something up.”
“Like Eidlewild,” I say, referring to a small bar in the middle of 16th Street.
“Yes. But with food and more seating,” he says. “Maybe you can help me come up with some cocktail recipes.”
Our knees are still touching. The air between us is warm from Mezcal and rum.
“I don’t know, making drinks for a competitor. Sounds deceptive, don’t you think?” I ask.
“Only if he finds out.” Ash says, and I can feel the space between us growing smaller as he slowly leans in.
Suddenly, my phone buzzes on the bar top, and I grab it.
“Daniel,” I gasp. “He’s finally calling me back.”