Page 11 of Finn

Suppressing a smile, he says, “It’s called a Duck Fart shot.”

“Oh…my…God.” I start laughing. “I’m sorry, but that sounds disgusting.”

He holds up a hand. “It’s not. I swear!”

Wary, I ask, “Uh, what exactly is in it?”

“Here.” He turns around and starts picking out bottles from behind the bar. “Let me show you.”

I watch with interest as he fills the bottom of one tall shot glass with a dark liquor, which turns out to be Kahlua. He then adds Bailey’s Irish Cream poured over the back of a spoon to make the white middle layer, and tops it all off with a decent amount of Crown Royal whiskey, making the uppermost level an amber shade.

“Ooh, it’s very pretty,” I remark as he hands me the colorful shot. Turning it this way and that and admiring it as he makes one for himself, I add, “This is like a work of art. Maybe you should pick up a shift at Boots.”

Laughing, he says, “Yeah, maybe I should.”

Putting on a mock-serious tone, I let him know, “Hey, we’re always hiring.”

Now we’re both laughing, as we know he doesn’t need an extra job. Hockey keeps him plenty busy, and he clearly has more than enough money.

Holding up his finished shot, he says, “Now, since it’s layered, you can’t sip it. You have to just down it all in one big gulp.”

I assure him, “I can do that.”

“Up in Juneau, we like to say, ‘Quack, quack, throw it back.’”

That makes me giggle, but I ask if we can do just a normal toast.

“Sure,” Finn replies.

Lifting my shot glass and holding it up to his, I say, “Here’s to Juneau, Alaska, and shots with funny names.”

We tap glasses, and he adds, “Here’s to making new friends as well.”

I like that, so, smiling over at him, I say softly, “I’ll drink to that.”

And we do.

In one fell swoop, I down my Duck Fart shot, which happens to be quite tasty. I especially like the Bailey’s part.

Finn downs his shot, too, then sets the glass down on the bar.

Setting mine down next to his, I say, “I like it. I think I’ll have another.”

He laughs. “You got it. And I’ll join you.”

“Good.”

Finn pours us two more Duck Fart shots, then twists off the caps of two bottled light beers he pulls out from a mini refrigerator under the bar.

“We need a chaser,” he explains as he sets one beer in front of me.

I agree, but since I’m already feeling kind of buzzed, I say, “Okay, but if you find me sleeping in my car in the morning, don’t be alarmed.”

Brow furrowing, he says, “You don’t have to sleep in your car, Sammie. Look at this place.” He waves his hand around. “I have plenty of spare bedrooms both upstairs and down. You can just stay here. In fact, I think you should plan to do that so we don’t have to worry.”

I like his idea, but I’m not sure.

Grimacing, I say, “Oh, I don’t know. I don’t want to interfere with your schedule.”

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