Page 115 of Every Beautiful Mile

When we finally leave the bedroom, it’s after dark and the rain has stopped. I’m wearing one of Ethan’s long-sleeved shirts that hits the middle of my thighs, and he’s only wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt. The scene we create is familiar—easy—and it doesn’t seem possible that we’ve never been here before.

I guzzle down a glass of water as he minces garlic on a cutting board.

“Are we supposed to talk about what just happened?”

The question comes out in an awkward blurt, but I’m so far removed from this kind of scenario I have no idea what protocol is.

He shoots me an amused look over his shoulder and raises his eyebrows.

“I would love to talk about what just happened.”

“Ha. Ha,” I say dryly. “I’m serious, Ethan. Are we supposed to have some kind of discussion or make any weird speeches about what it means or doesn’t mean?” I spin the empty glass on the counter. “What do you usually do in these casual situations of yours?”

I’m being serious—I genuinely don’t know what I’m supposed to do and desperately don’t want to get it wrong.

He drops the knife on the cutting board and covers the small space between us in two quick steps.

“Stop right there.” He lifts my chin with his index finger until my eyes meet his. “You were amazing. We were amazing. I’m very happy to talk about all the things I thought were amazing if you want.” He dusts a light kiss on my lips, absorbing some of the tension pulling at my shoulders. “But my casual situations are nothing like this, Penelope. Women don’t meet the boys, and I definitely don’t mince garlic for them in my sweatpants.”

I smile deliriously from how his words make something warm pump through my veins.

“Do you want to talk about what just happened?” he asks, rubbing his palm against my bicep.

“I liked it, if that’s what you mean.” My cheeks flush with the confession, and I have to look away as all the things I liked so much start dancing in my head.

“Good.”

He kisses me, deeper this time, before pulling away and getting back to work at the stove.

***

With a satisfied belly full of shrimp scampi, I wave the bottle of vodka at Ethan.

“The Moscow mule might have peaked a few years ago, but it’s still popular enough I think you should know it.”

I pull a recognizable copper mug out of my box and hand it to him.

“I remember,” he says looking at it. “We have sets of these at both restaurants.”

“The reasoning behind the copper material is it keeps the drinks colder, but its novelty makes a lot of people order the cocktail. The mug alone makes it feel like a different experience. I would say if you are going to serve the Moscow Mule in your bar, the mug is non-negotiable. If you have the space, some people like to keep them in a freezer, so they are chilled when they serve the drink in them, but we don’t have that space at our bar, so they are always used at room temperature.”

I spread the rest of the ingredients across the counter before filling both mugs with ice.

He nods but doesn’t say anything.

“I always recommend a better-quality liquor whenever possible, but every bar is different, and you have to learn your customers and the price they are willing to pay. I like Tito’s. It has a more subtle flavor that doesn’t overpower the other ingredients, but you can also explore flavored vodkas or something from a local distillery. I know how you don’t like to deviate from Maine.” I tease, pouring a shot of vodka into my mug before passing it to him.

He chuckles, then does the same.

I hold up two limes. “Now the lime.”

We each cut and squeeze the juice over the ice and the familiar smell of the bright citrus smells like a million hours in the Florida sun.

“The easy way to make the drink is a bottled lime juice, but it is absolutely worth it to use fresh ingredients wherever you can, including limes, a sentiment I’m sure you can relate to in the kitchen. I guarantee it’s worth the time and effort to use fresh juice. I have no proof, of course, but I would bet money that people are more likely to order a second drink when a fresh lime is used over a bottled mix. It’s that powerful.”

He silently nods, but there’s an amused look on his face.

“Ginger beer comes next,” I say, popping the top of the small bottle. “There are a few popular brands, but I always try to find one that isn’t overly sweet or syrupy. Corn syrup is never my friend, but sometimes it’s hard to be that picky. If you are going through the effort of juicing a fresh lime, it’s for nothing if the main mixer tastes artificial and overly sweet.”

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