a bunch of different bottles and a metal shaker. “If I was trying to get you drunk, I would have grabbed the vodka.”
“Should I be worried about how fast you said that?”
“No. I was in the military. I know the best way to get drunk fast.” He was pouring syrups and liquids into the shaker.
“Were you a bartender in a movie, too?”
“There was an offer, but the deal didn’t come together. I did my research, just in case.”
He poured the drinks into glass tumblers and handed me one. “Do you want to go sit in the library?”
Again, that felt a little dangerous. But I said, “Yes.”
I followed behind him, remembering the room from before. I planned on sitting in one of the armchairs, but when we got there the only piece of furniture left was a couch. A very small, two-seater one.
“Shelby’s really cleaning you out, isn’t she?” I asked when I sat. He sat down close, facing me, and I had to refrain from scooting away. But whether that was to prove something to him or something to me, I wasn’t sure.
He took a sip of his drink. “I’m planning on staying here during the renovation, so she’s leaving me what she thinks I need and we’ll just move everything around as they work on different rooms. I couldn’t go to a hotel. I hate hotels.”
“That must be fun for someone who travels as much as you do.”
He raised an eyebrow in agreement, taking another drink.
I decided to take a drink, too. I grimaced after my first taste.
“What do you think?” he asked.
“I think this tastes like lemonade’s hardened older brother who has a full tattoo arm sleeve and a criminal record.”
He laughed, but I did take another drink. It tasted better now. Maybe his laughter had done that.
Or it was the alcohol.
Probably the alcohol, which was warming my insides and making me feel very relaxed. It really had been a long time since I could afford such quality liquor. “So if this is supposedly your favorite, what is your actual favorite?”
He leaned forward, a gleam in his eyes. “If I tell you, you can’t tell anyone. It would ruin my street cred.”
“I’m pretty sure you don’t have any street cred, but I promise not to tell.” With my free hand, I made an X across my chest. “Cross my heart.”
“So I went to Hawaii, trying to vacation.”
“Trying to vacation?” I couldn’t help but interrupt. “How does that work?”
“My agent wanted me to relax, but it didn’t work so well for me. I’m one of those people who needs to be doing something, working, or else I get in my own head, and that’s not good. Anyway, I went down to the hotel bar the first night, and the bartender recognized me and gave me their house special. It was a piña colada.”
I gasped with joy. “Please tell me you drank it out of an actual pineapple and that a tiny pink umbrella was involved.”
He held up one hand, as if telling me to slow down. “No, it was in a regular glass. I didn’t want it, but I tried it just to be polite. But it was literally the best drink I’ve ever had. I kept ordering them and then had to be helped back to my room.”
That made me laugh, and some detached part of my brain wondered if it was a little too loud.
“Whenever I’ve ordered them anyplace else, they’re never as good. And if anybody saw me drinking it . . . my reputation would be shot. Our captain once said that real men drink whiskey sours, so . . .”
“So that’s what you drink in public?”
He shrugged one shoulder. “I don’t really drink in public because of that whole thing with my parents. The last thing I would need is to be out of control where somebody could take a picture of me. But it’s what I drink when I hang out with my army buddies.”
I took another drink. It really was improving with familiarity. “Do you see them very often? The guys from your unit?”
“My company, not my unit. I’m one of the few bachelors in the group. So they’re busy. I’m busy. Our lives are pretty radically different, but we do try to keep in touch via email and text. It helps with the guilt.”
“The guilt?” I questioned. “Why would you feel guilty?”
“From leaving them early. I really struggled with it in the beginning, and it still flares up from time to