Page 10 of Mixing Drinks For Tipsy Weasels

"Fair enough." I hold out my hand.

He stares at it.

"We've got to shake on it," I point out. "Otherwise it isn't a proper truce."

He sighs and takes my hand in his.

A strange feeling comes over me. It's been years since we've touched and I don't remember it ever feeling like this. His hand is warm, and it feels kind of comforting despite who it's attached to.

I look up and accidentally meet Rupert's eyes. Neither of us move, completely caught in whatever is happening.

"Have we accidentally made some kind of magical pact?" I ask without meaning to.

He clears his throat and pulls his hand away from mine abruptly. "Of course not. Robin said that we need to help stock the bar, apparently the mixologist is coming next week to help us work out some cocktails."

"That sounds like one of the most fun parts of the ball prep," I admit.

"I thought your family didn't drink? Because of your dad?"

"We don't. There are fun mocktails," I respond, trying not to let my surprise over the fact he remembered that show.

"Ah, mocktails." He nods and heads over to where a load of crates and boxes are sitting.

I look at the boxes and try not to feel overwhelmed by the amount of them. "Where did they even come from?" I muse.

"The bar downstairs," Rupert answers. "I asked Robin about it earlier. The bar is providing the staff and are the ones profiting from the sales on the day."

"Then they really should be doing it now," I mutter. "I know Robin wants to save money, but seriously? Aren't they worried we'll help ourselves or something?"

"Security cameras," he responds, gesturing to where one is overlooking the bar.

"Huh, guess so." Not that I would have done that anyway, and despite our differences, I don't think Rupert would do something like that either. But there are a lot of people coming and going while we're prepping for the ball, any number of them could just come in and take something.

I pick up one of the boxes, already missing the painting. I'd been stiff for the past couple of days after all the stretching, but I could already tell that this was going to be worse.

We work in silence, moving the boxes behind the bar and setting them down close to the fridges. It isn't until we're done that I stand back and frown.

"I have no idea where we're supposed to put what," I admit.

"We've got a map." He pulls a sheet of laminated paper off the counter.

"Can you have a map of a fridge?"

He shrugs. "How should I know? This is the first time I've ever encountered one." He turns it so I can see.

I'm not sure what I'd call it, but I guess I can see why he went with map. It has all of the different bottles and cans from the boxes labelled as to where they go in the fridge.

"Who even comes up with things like this?" I ask.

"I'm guessing people who have to use drinks fridges a lot. I've honestly never given it much thought. When I go to a bar, it's normally just to order a drink rather than to check out how they've organised the fridge."

"All right, fair point." I sit down on the floor, not knowing where else to go. "Have you got the box of coke?"

He slides it over to me with his foot. I rip off the tab and start pulling out cans, lining them up neatly so the company logo is to the front. I don't know if that's what we're supposed to do, but I'd rather be a little more specific than I need to be than have to redo it because I wasn't.

"So, what do you study?" I ask as I get used to the monotony of the task.

"A truce doesn't mean interest," he murmurs from his side of the fridge.

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