Page 142 of Spicy Ever After
“Will you do me a favor?” I ask, squeezing his hand again.
He squeezes back. “Anything.”
And considering the way he freed me from underwire on the church steps with his pocketknife, I know he means it.
I nod toward the bar on the porch. “It’s an open bar. Would you order me a Shirley Temple with whatever you’re getting?”
A grin streaks across his face. “Of course.”
I duck my chin and make a conscious effort to lower my voice. “Lots of cherries.”
“You got it.”
And when he orders, I have my back to the bar, so I don’t even have to see the smirk the bartender might wear. Given Beck’s size and the way he fills out that suit, no one behind the bar dares to say “What, are you eight?” at my order.
Besides, anyone who says they don’t like a Shirley Temple with lots of cherries is straight up lying.
Beck tips the bartender, and we carry our drinks toward the tent. His glass is not even half full—not a cherry in sight, not even a lime wedge—and the amber liquid inside looks positively lethal.
“What is that?” I ask, wrinkling my nose.
Beck eyes his glass as if he can’t believe what he’s saying. “It’s Isle of Skye 21 YR Scotch.”
“Oh, that.” I roll my eyes. “My dad can’t stop talking about that stuff.”
“It’s $90 a bottle,” Beck says under his breath. He looks back at the bar over his shoulder. “There were three bottles on the back bar besides this one.”
I snort. “Crazy, right? Why would someone pay that much for a drink that tastes like kerosene?”
Beck raises the glass to his nose. He makes a noise in his throat I like so much my ovaries stand at attention.
So I miss nothing when he licks his lips, puts the glass to them, and tips back a sip. Jaw open, lips closed, he hollows his cheeks and holds the liquid in his mouth as his eyes drift shut.
Damn. This is hot.
As I watch him swallow, his Adam’s apple bobbing above his crisp collar, heat rushes up my thighs.
Again, he makes a noise that’s more like a soft growl. Then he shakes his head and his eyes flutter open.
“Definitely doesn’t taste like kerosene.” The words are throaty and satisfied, and all the sudden, I want to snatch a whole bottle of the stuff just to watch Beck do that again.
And again.
But my runaway fantasy is upended when I catch a scrap of Beck’s muttered words.
“...Beats sweet potato hooch brewed in a dirty shed…”
I go still. “What did you say?”
“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!” the band’s frontman booms. “GIVE IT UP FOR THE NEWLYWEDS! MARGARET AND MERRICK!”
And Merrick leads my sister to the dance floor where a circle of guests is quickly forming. The band breaks into a blaring, joyful rendition of “You’re the Best Thing.”
Beck takes my free hand. “C’mon. We shouldn’t miss their first dance.”
We move closer to the action before I stop. Even though we’re outside, the band’s volume hits me like a force field.
“Can I have my Loops?”
