Page 13 of Invoking Ruin

And somehow, even though picky tourists are the bane of everyone’s existence, no one has ever complained about a glass I’ve served them. They even leave tips, which I’ve tried to refuse to no avail.

Needless to say, if I quit tomorrow, I’d have enough to live for a year on those tips alone.

I’m just wrapping up an order when a man sidles up to the bar. He helps himself to a high chair and stares at me.

“Moscato,” he orders.

He’s… incredibly handsome. Tight, curly dark hair, olive toned golden skin, full mouth surrounded by a neatly trimmed beard and mustache to highlight his sharp jaw and dark, glittering eyes.

He also isn’t a moscato drinker. There’s a challenge in his eyes, as though he knows it as well as I do. While most people order the wine they think they should like more than the wine they actually will, I can’t remember a time a customer actually ordered the wrong wine on purpose.

No matter, I'll pick a wine better suited to him. My fingers practically hum as I draw them over bottles waiting for the sense of rightness to come over me.

When it does, I pull the bottle from the line and pour a measure into a glass for him, sliding it across the bar top.

The man arches a brow, glancing between me and the decidedly still, red blend I’d put in front of him.

“This isn’t what I ordered,” he points out.

I grin. “No, but it’s what you want.”

“And if it’s not? You’ll take responsibility for it?”

He’s hardly the first skeptical customer I’ve had, but I haven’t been wrong yet. I nod my head. “Try it and see.”

The man obliges, swirling the wine in his glass and breathing deeply before taking a sip. He nods appreciatively and sets the glass back down.

“It’s very fine, but it is too dry. It would have been better if it were sweeter.”

The wind drops from my sails. I’ve never missed before.

“It’s already a very sweet wine blend,” I point out. “You might need a dessert wine.”

The man shakes his head. “Then it will be too sweet. It is important to find the balance between them.”

“I’ll try something else,” I offer, but truly I’m flummoxed. He’s making an impossible demand, now. Sweeter than what he has, but not too sweet—trying to thread that needle is an exercise in futility.

The man is grinning, though, clearly delighting in my discomfort. “No, don’t trouble yourself. It is passable. Truly, I have only had one perfect wine on this earth, and it no longer exists. I doubt you would be able to please me.”

I believe him, but I still itch to try. At the same time, I’m not willing to risk him finding fault with every bottle in the bar, and I have a feeling he’d do exactly that.

“If you’re sure,” I say.

He nods, “I am. This is tolerable, more so than the moscato, so I thank you for that.”

Well, at least he’s giving me some credit. I nod my head and go back to pouring for other, happier customers. But when he finishes his glass, he doesn’t leave like I expect him to. Instead, he watches me, dark eyes trailing over every movement like a lover’s caress.

Normally, I’d be flattered, but I like being able to please, and he seems like the type to to find fault in everything.

I can’t even say why I know his personality with such certainty, only that I do, and I trust my own instincts.

The sooner I can make him leave, the better.

“Anything else I can get you?” I take the glass to put it aside, but the man places his hand on mine, halting me. I jolt.

I’ve been touched before. Forward customers, both welcome and unwelcome, seeing an opportunity to try their luck. It’s never been hard to put them off with a smile and a quick shake of my head.

None of them have ever filled me with pure dread, before. And so many questions. Doubts swirl in my head, every criticism I’ve ever heard echoing in my ears.

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