Page 38 of Ruthless Love

My shoulders drop in pure defeat. “I’m not denying I’ve wanted to say yes to the whole sloppy mess. At least pull it off once just to say I did it. But you have no idea how my stomach is already assuming the upchuck position.”

Austin leans in. “Most of the time, you want to take a bite or two of the oyster before you swallow. To get the full flavor.”

“Gross,” I say, allowing myself a noticeable full-body shake.

“But in your case, I’m guessing you’ve tried that.”

“Yes, and of all the things I want touching the back of my throat, oysters rank dead last.”

“Evie, by that adorable accent you keep trying to hide, and your default position to take no shit, I’m guessing you’re a girl who knows how to toss back whiskey.”

Heat rises in my cheeks to know that my elocution lessons to shed the thick Texas accent of my childhood failed.

Austin calls over the waiter, then asks me, “Bourbon or rye?”

My give-a-fuck factor flies out the window as I think, hell yeah. “If we’re doing shots, we’re doing rye.”

Austin’s nod of appreciation makes me smile.

The waiter also approves. “A lady after my own heart.”

“Mine too,” Austin says, but I don’t make too much of his words until he says, “The lady and I will each have a shot of WhistlePig Twelve if you’ve got it.”

Delighted, I giggle as the waiter shoots me a wink. “Excellent choice.”

Austin sizes me up with a knowing glance, then looks back at the waiter. “Bring the bottle. Whatever we don’t finish, we’ll keep at the house.”

“Yes, sir. Be right back.”

I can’t help but clap my hands with delight as I bounce in my seat. “I haven’t done a shot of rye since school. Rye. Line dancing. A mechanical bull. I think you’re about to unleash my former party girl. That is, before I had to become an upstanding member of society.”

Austin’s demeanor changes, and his brow wrinkles. He looks as if he’s about to say something, then reconsiders.

“Spit it out.” I’m less cajoling and more demanding, not needing to wait on booze to make me a total boss babe.

“I’m afraid to tell you something. You’ll just use it against me.” His helpless gray eyes seem ready for me to unleash my best after a setup like that.

“Oh, and you think you’re keeping it from me now? Spill.”

Our waiter returns with two stately shot glasses and an amber bottle, the burgundy label reading whistlepig rye whiskey – old world – aged twelve years.

“This is perfect. Thanks, Rusty.”

“My pleasure,” our waiter says as he cracks the seal, twists the cork, and is about to pour.

“I’ve got it,” Austin says, and Rusty hands over the smooth glass bottle and withdraws to tend to another table.

My pout is obvious as Austin gives us each a disappointing half pour.

He looks up at me and grins. “What?”

“What’s with the baby pour?”

“I’m pretty sure you don’t give this to babies.”

I snatch up my glass, squinting at it at eye-level. “That is definitely a baby pour.”

“A full pour must be earned. Here’s the deal. You sip—or shoot—this baby pour, as you call it. That hit will give your throat just the slightest heat and an instant numbing sensation. Then toss back the oyster, hold your breath, and swallow. Your full pour will be waiting for you when you’re done. Ready?”

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