Chapter 3 Mason
Mason
The prettiest disaster of a woman who’s ever walked up to my bar polishes off her glass of Citrus Zest spring cider, then fixes her haunting green eyes on me. “Will we be seeing each other tomorrow?” she says neutrally.
“Let’s find out.”
She holds my gaze for a moment, pink coloring her cheeks—maybe the effect of the alcohol, or whatever she’s thinking right now. Then she slides her glass toward me. “Can I have another, please?”
She’s so polite, it does something to me. I’m not even sure if I like it. I just can’t stop staring at her.
It’s not just that she’s pretty. Or how hot she looks in that yoga-wear, her cropped T-shirt sliding off one creamy shoulder. Or the silky, slightly disheveled brunette ponytail I want to slide through my fingers and wrap around my fist.
Maybe it’s the way she’s still trying so hard to be polite despite whatever went so sour for her in my office.
She reminds me of a wilted flower that someone forgot to water.
For some reason, it kind of outrages me, the idea that maybe she’s been mistreated somehow. It arouses every protective instinct I have.
Maybe I misjudged her when she first walked in, assumed she was like all the other city girls who strut in here, impatient for quick service and more interested in making Reels about their meal than actually tasting it.
Maybe she’s different.
Either way, her day clearly went to shit on whatever phone calls she made. Turning that around for her is a bartender’s job, right?
It’s not a job I’m here to do right now; I usually only help out at the bar when we’re slammed and I happen to be in. But there’s no way I’m leaving her to Beckett, my daytime bartender, who’s prepping the bar for the night shift right now. Let him cut limes and make drinks for the other customers.
This one is all mine.
I push off the bar and select a bottle from the glass shelf behind me. When I turn back, her eyes widen at the shot glass I place in front of her.
“Really?” she says. “That bad?”
“I’m afraid it’ll take at least two shots to fix what ails you, ma’am. Bartender’s orders.”
“Well, alright,” she says, with mock disappointment. “Bartender knows best, right?”
I pour the shot without a word. If Jace was still here, he’d probably wink at her and deliver some smooth line.
But thank god he’s living in the house I’m renting out next to the bar right now; I sent him over to load some tools into my truck that I don’t even need.
I’m not going to examine why. His smirk told me the reason, even if I wanted to lie to myself.
I’m looking at the reason right now.
She lifts her eyes to mine. They’re light green, with faint circles beneath that suggest a lack of sleep. “You’re not going to have one with me?”
I consider that for a second. Then I pour myself one, too. We pick up the shots, clink them together, and throw them back.
She licks her soft, plump lips and something stirs, low in my gut. Lower. “Wow.”
“Wow good, or wow bad?”
“Good, obviously. What is it?”
“That,” I tell her, “is award-winning blackberry gin from my family’s distillery.”
She rests her chin on her palm, gazing at me as the gin works its way through her system. “Orchard and a distillery, huh?”
“Among other things.” Now it sounds like I’m trying to impress her with my family’s assets, so I change the subject. “Just one shot for me, though. I’m working.”
“I see that. What happened to that house you’re supposed to be working on?”
“I am. I will.” The truth is, it’s getting harder to walk away the longer she gazes at me like that.
“Well, then. Before you go, can I get that second shot?” She slides her shot glass toward me. I refill it with violet gin, and she throws it back; gin didn’t earn the label of “panty peeler” for nothing, and this is the smoothest gin I’ve ever drunk.
Dangerously smooth.
“So . . . classic rock, huh?” she says, and licks gin from her lip. “Is that your musical jam?”
“One of many.”
“Interesting. I consider myself a melomaniac.”
“Oh, yeah? You have an obsession with music? Me, too.”
“Really.” She narrows her eyes at me in disbelief. “There’s obsession, and then there’s obsession.”
I lean toward her on the bar, close. “I’m sorry, is this a competition?”
Her cheeks flush as her mouth opens slowly. I think she’s flustered.
I think those are fucking butterflies I feel in my stomach as we stare at each other.
“I have been known to be disturbingly competitive about my musical knowledge,” she says.
Adorable.
“Well, I’ve been told I’m polyjamorous,” I tell her. “I seriously enjoy almost every genre.”
She raises an eyebrow. “I’m calling bullshit. You’re gonna tell me anything goes? Deathcore? Happy hardcore? Mumble rap? You’ve got the windows down and a jaunty polka cranked as you drive down the highway?”
I chuckle. “I said almost every genre.”
She smiles.
Forget butterflies. It feels like an entire flock of doves just lifted off from my ribcage because I made her smile.
She slides the shot glass toward me again. “Third one’s a charm?” Her eyes twinkle at me, and everything around her seems to blur out. There’s nothing but her, me, and some vague sense of an annoying world somewhere beyond.
I have to force myself to look away.
It would probably be best to slow her down, so I open a cold bottle of award-winning Sea Salt cider, romanticizing it for her as I pour her a glass.
“How about a crisp apple cider, with fresh lime and a hint of sea salt? Like a margarita, but better. You’ll want to savor it.
Maybe with some guacamole and flatbread.
I’ll put an order into the kitchen for you. ”
“Ah. He’s trying not to get me drunk. How gallant.” She closes one eye and tilts her head like she’s trying to make sense of me. “Or, he’s just trying to drive up my tab . . . ?”
“It’s on the house.”
“Pity food? No thank you!” She digs in her pink bag and extracts a credit card.
“Nope. Your money’s no good on this.”
“Why?” She glances around like there must be some hidden camera and she’s getting punked.
“What, you don’t have gentlemen in Vancouver?”
Her chin lifts. “And how do you know I’m from Vancouver?”
“It’s obvious.”
She frowns.
“Not in a bad way,” I amend.
“I’ll pretend to believe that.”
“I like your coffee mug,” I say, as seriously as I can.
It’s sitting on the bar between us, and there’s a big, sparkly sticker on the side facing me. It’s a heart with an arrow through it, and one word on it: Boys.
“Don’t expect to get it refilled for a few miles, though,” I tell her. “The nearest place to get a latte is like twenty minutes away, in Duncan, though that probably doesn’t seem far to a city person.”
“I’ll try to survive,” she says.
I move to the computer and start putting in her food order, asking casually, “Have you checked out any of the sights yet?”
“No. I just followed GPS straight to the town center—what there is of it.”
“It’s not Vancouver, I’ll give you that. But don’t go thinking there’s nothing to see out here.”
“Heavens, no.”
“You should have a local show you around.” Our eyes meet briefly, and there’s that spark, low in my gut.
“Maybe June Spencer will,” she says lightly.
I make no comment.
When I finish at the computer, she slides the credit card toward me. “Trust me, you may need all the room available on this thing to cover my tab. I may just be getting started.”
“May?”
“I haven’t decided yet.” She raises an eyebrow and sips her cider. She’s definitely getting more playful as the alcohol sinks in.
“How about this?” I pour her a tall glass of water and set it beside the cider. “You drink some water and I’ll take the card. Just in case.”
“Deal.”
I take the card, mainly so I can check out her name. “Sierra. Like the pickup truck?”
She wrinkles her nose, which is all kinds of cute. “Like the mountains.”
I’m about to ask more on that when a blonde woman wearing a sparkly red Maid of Dishonor sash leans across the bar between us. Actually, she’s kind of on top of the bar, and in my face. “Hello. We need a round of shots,” she informs me.
Then she slides back until her feet presumably reconnect with the floor, grinning at me.
“Need” is debatable.
I glance across the room at the bride. She looks fairly stable on her feet, maybe a little glass-eyed, and very happy. Her sash announces Same Penis Forever.
Beckett and Abby, the server on duty, have already served the group a few rounds of shots and opened four wine-sized bottles of Sea Haven Gold classic cider for them. The dinner menus Abby handed out seem to have been tossed aside.
I ask the blonde, “What can I get for you?”
Her eyes rip off my shirt so violently, I almost hear fabric tearing. “Flaming Orgasms all around, please.” She gives Sierra a girl-to-girl eyebrow wiggle that maybe she thinks is subtle.
“Coming right up,” I tell her.
She sings a “Thank you!” and wanders back to the group. Their laughter is loud and very possibly annoying to the older couple eating ribs by the front window, and I decide to turn up the music a bit more.
As I line up shot glasses on the bar, I feel Sierra watching me. She’s still leaning in. I’m trying not to be cocky about it, but the only reason to linger here is me.
“So, where’s your sash?” I ask her. “I’m dying to know what it says.” I am, actually. She’s the only one of them not wearing one.
She blinks at me like she’s trying very hard to keep a straight face. “More importantly, what’s in a Flaming Orgasm?”
“You know, I’ve been running this bar for most of my adult life, and I have no idea. For all I know, she just made that up.”
Sierra full-on grins as I fill a cocktail shaker with ice. “Well, I’m pretty sure they’ll drink whatever you make for them.” Then she bites her lip, like she tried to catch the compliment before it slipped out, but missed.
“Let’s hope so.” I pour Baileys Irish Cream, Kahlúa, and Goldschl?ger into the cocktail shaker, give it a good shake, then strain the mixture into the little glasses. I slide one in front of her.