Page 18 of Don't Go
I frowned. "Don't call me that."
"Fine. I won't." He set his hands flat on the bar again. "And to answer your question—I'm not playing at anything. Just thought I'd get a drink from the best bartender in the city."
Now I was worried.
He was giving me compliments.Compliments.What does this man want? What does this man, whose foundation has my daughter on a list, want from me right now after his father just collapsed in his arms in the middle of a wine?—
A customer raised a hand at the second stool.
I turned. "What can I get you?"
"Bourbon, neat."
"Brand?"
"Whatever's open."
I poured the bourbon. I set it on a coaster. I took the card. I rang it. I came back.
Beau was watching me the whole time. He hadn't moved. His elbow was still on the bar, his eyes still on me. The corner of his mouth lifted as I came back into his line of sight. I tried not to notice.
"I was here first," he said. "Won't you take my order?"
I set my elbow on the bar across from his and gave him my sweetest smile. "I'm only attending to serious customers, sweetie."
His mouth twitched. "Touché."
"Are you ready to place your order, Mr. Cross?"
"I'll take a?—"
I glared at him.
He stopped mid-word. He looked up at me—right at me, not at the bar between us, not over my shoulder, at me—and laughed. His head went back. His throat moved. The laugh came out of him loud enough that the woman two stools over turned her head with the offended look of a person trying to enjoy her chardonnay in peace. He brought one hand up between us, palm out to me, in surrender. The other hand he pressed against his chest like the laugh had hit him there.
He shook his head once and dropped both hands back to the bar.
"Whatever you recommend."
"Smart man."
I made him an old fashioned. I made it well, because being a professional means you make the drink correctly even whenyou'd prefer to send the customer home with food poisoning. I slid it across.
He picked it up, took a slow sip, and his eyebrows moved up.
"This is excellent."
I didn't comment.
I watched him take the second sip. Shadows under his eyes. Faint stubble on his jaw. The same shirt, the same loose top buttons, no tie. He hadn't been home.
"How's your dad?"
The question was out of my mouth before I'd decided to ask it.
He paused mid-sip.
He set the glass down very carefully. For half a second, he stayed exactly where he was. Then he came back.
