and reaches out to me. “Tucking your hair behind your ear when you’re feeling nervous,” he says, grasping at the silky strands and rubbing them between his thumb and pointer finger. His eyes are trained on the hair he’s trapped but I can’t tear my gaze from his. His eyes are intent, his brow knitted slightly and his breathing, though soft, has deepened.
“Why would I be nervous?” I ask, my pulse quickening.
“I’m an amateur scientist, remember? I have to observe the subject closely and record my findings.” His eyes move from my hair to my face then drift down to my mouth.
Now I’m the one that’s breathing heavy. “I had no idea I was the subject of your research. What other observations have you made?”
Sam drops the strand of hair he’s been toying with and brings his eyes back to my own. His lids are heavy and he takes a long time before answering. “Oh, my research has unveiled some very interesting findings. I know your hair smells like lavender and mint. I know you have the softest hands of anyone I’ve ever met, and I know you’re doing your best to avoid spending time with me because you’re afraid of what could happen.”
My eyes are trained on his mouth, watching the way he forms each word. “Why do you think I’m afraid?”
“My theory’s that you’ve been let down a time or two, and you’re hoping to get a better hand this time.”
“Interesting,” I say, dragging in my bottom lip. His eyes follow the movement closely. “So tonight’s kind of an experiment?”
“You could say that.”
“And what result are you looking for?”
Sam grins, slow and devious. His lips are full and soft looking, so different from the rest of him which is strong and hard. His eyes wander back to my mouth and I have to strain to hear his next words over the thudding in my ears. “I want you to dance with me.”
I blink, stupid with confusion. Dance with him? Surely he means I’m going to attend a dance in his pants as that’s the only dancing I’m interested in just now. “Dance with you?”
“That’s right,” he says, confident. “You and I are going to walk out back and have ourselves a dance on Clara’s old dirt dance floor.”
“Oh.” I’m spared at having to come up with something more sexy and mysterious than, ‘Oh,’ when Clara reappears at our table with two drinks in hand.
“Here you are, my beauty,” she says, handing me a glass which contains a small amount of caramel-colored liquid. “This is special whiskey. It has been aged for twenty years and just opened tonight. Please, drink. It will help to awaken the passion within you.”
Clara smiles dreamily down at me, waiting for me to take a sip and possibly to jump on the table and tear off my dress. I look across at Sam who’s taken a sip from his own glass and is staring fixedly back at me.
“Well, it’s bottoms up, I guess.” I raise the glass to my lips and take a tentative sip. The liquor is surprisingly smooth and a little sweet, and I roll it across my tongue before swallowing. The heat of the whiskey travels down my throat and I close my eyes against the sensation, waiting to feel the passion burst forth. I can’t say I want to tear my clothes off, but as the whiskey works its way into my belly I do feel…something.
Clara, who’s been studying me closely, seems satisfied. “You don’t believe, but you will see. Before the hour is done you will feel the passion building inside you. But I must warn you, this drink is very powerful. It is not wise to resist its magic.” Clara places her hand on Sam’s shoulder and gives it a little squeeze before walking back to the bar and her other unsuspecting patrons.
“Magic, huh? Seems like ordinary whiskey to me,” I say, trying hard to not give in to Sam’s magnetic pull or Clara’s lustful libations. I take another sip and reluctantly meet his eyes over my glass.
“What, you don’t believe in magic?”
The glass feels heavy in my hand and I lower it to the table, eying the remaining whiskey at the bottom. “Magic only exists in fairytales, stories where all girls are princesses and frogs actually turn into charming princes.”
“Stories where everything ends happily ever after?”
“That’s right. Happily ever after only happens in fairytales,” I murmur, wishing he’d drop the conversation. I turn away from him and