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There’s no place I’d rather be. That’s the problem. I’m having so much fun right now, tasting whiskey with Declan and flirting, teasing each other. It’s almost like we’re a real couple, and that’s something I could easily get addicted to. It’s more dangerous than too much whiskey.
And he can’t know. If he knows that I have feelings for him, he’d call this whole thing off. And I don’t know what I’d do if I couldn’t do this—at least pretend that this means nothing while having the time of my life trading blunted barbs and swilling expensive whiskey.
“Anywhere else and I wouldn’t be able to afford what I’m drinking,” I say as easily as I can manage, turning away from the window and smiling. “Thanks again for sharing. Although I really, really don’t want to know the price tag.”
“It’s Glenlivet Eighty Year Old,” Declan tells me casually. “It costs about a hundred and ten thousand a bottle.”
My eyes bulge. Thank god I didn’t just take a drink, or I’d be spitting out the most expensive whiskey I’ve ever tasted. As it is, I sputter for a moment, my mouth falling open. “Are you fucking serious?”
“Do I look like the kind of person who jokes about whiskey?”
I roll my eyes, since he definitely isn’t. “No. But… holy shit. I’d better savor every sip, because there’s no way I’ll ever be drinking this stuff again. Unless they’ll let me set up a twenty year payment plan.”
“You like it though, don’t you?” he asks, lifting an eyebrow.
“Yes.” I nod fervently. “It’s the best whiskey I’ve ever had. I love it. I just didn’t realize it was basically three times as old as I am.”
I should’ve told you earlier,” Declan says with a low chuckle. “Then maybe you wouldn’t have chugged it all.”
“You needed to be clearer about what chewing meant,” I say primly, sassing him back even as I mentally run calculations on what a finger of this stuff must cost. “That would’ve saved a lot of gulps. You could’ve said ‘sip,’ for example.”
“No, no.” He purses his lips, shaking his head as he gestures for me to come closer. I join him in the other armchair, which is set near to his. “‘Sip’ implies just tasting with the tip of your tongue and your lips, and there’s no way you could’ve gotten the full bouquet like that.” His grin is sudden and wicked. “Besides, I like watching you flush and cough. It makes me think about what else I can put in your mouth.”
Now I’m definitely flushing. Again.
“I don’t know how you can hold your whiskey,” I tell him. “I’m sure you’ve had at least as much as I have.”
“Plenty of practice,” Declan reasons. “And friends who are also whiskey drinkers.”
I laugh. “I don’t believe you.”
“About the friends or the whiskey drinking?”
My laughter grows, and Declan snorts, realizing he’s walked right into my trap.
“Oh, you’re a regular comedian.” His eyes glint as he adds, “I’m going to make you pay for that.”
The promise in his voice makes me choke a little, and he smirks. I clear my throat, giving a little shrug. “I make myself laugh, at least. I’m not sure my comedy act is ready for primetime.”
Something shifts in his eyes, the blue flecks amid the gray warming a little, like droplets of water melting. “I like that you make yourself laugh, Spitfire. You’ve got one of the best laughs I’ve ever heard.”
My stomach flutters. He couldn’t have any way of knowing how self-conscious I sometimes feel about my laugh, having let Brad’s constant teasing about it get me completely in my head. So I know he doesn’t mean for his words to hit as hard as they do, or to affect me more deeply than a simple, off-hand compliment might. But an array of butterflies flap in my stomach as I smile almost shyly at him.
“Thanks. So, how many hangovers did it take for you and your friends to decide that you were officially classy whiskey drinkers?” I ask, returning to the earlier topic. “Is the jury still out on that one?”
“We have our fun,” he says. “Keeping our hands busy with poker keeps us from drinking too much.”
I blink, taking a small sip of my chilled whiskey and letting it roll around in my mouth. “I didn’t take you to be a gambler.” I peer at him. “I don’t know though. Now that you’re saying that, it kind of puts a puzzle piece into place. You do have a pretty serious poker face.”
Declan gifts me with a half-smile. “I wish I could have you on the record saying that. Cole thinks he knows my tell.”
“Cole?”
“One of those friends you don’t think I have.” Declan throws back some of his whiskey. “Poker night is a regular appointment on the calendar with Cole and Reed.”
“So what’s the tell?” I ask, curious.
“Cole’s sure that my eyebrow twitches when I have a good hand,” Declan says. “Like this.” He cocks his eyebrow a little bit. “But here’s a secret: if you pretend you have a tell, you can make your fellow players fold.”
