Page 1 of Golden Star

Sapphire

“That man lookslike he could use a drink,” my best friend Zoey says, motioning to a startlingly attractive dark-haired man at the end of the bar who’s staring into his water glass, brooding about something or other.

Join the club,I think, since I’m having a pretty terrible New Year’s Eve myself.

But as the star bartender at the Maple Pig Bar and Grill, it’s up to me to cheer this man up with whatever concoction comes to my mind as being the one he needs.

So, I walk over to him, and his gaze shifts to me.

His eyes are silver. An unusual color that holds an icy glint, like icicles pinning me down.

But I keep my cool. I’ve seen enough sad and mysterious eyes behind this counter to know how to deal with them.

Besides, there’s something different about this guy.Something that makes me want to reach beneath that brooding exterior and touch his soul.

Something that makes all thoughts of my fight with Matt this morning disappear into the corners of my mind.

“Rough night?” I ask once I’m standing in front of him.

“You could say that.” He keeps his eyes locked on mine, as if he’s challenging me about what to say next.

“Lucky for you, I have just the thing.” I pick up the shaker, getting ready to do what I do best. “This one’s on the house.”

It’s what I always say to newcomers.

And, as always, my hands move like they have a mind of their own. Each ingredient flows into place, and there’s a familiar soft hum beneath my skin, like the vibration of a note just beyond hearing.

“Aren’t you a bit young to be serving drinks?” he asks as I work.

“I’m eighteen,” I say. “I make the best drinks in Maine. So, as long as I don’tdrinkthe drinks, the restaurant lets me make them and serve them.”

The finished product is a soft pinkish concoction—one that fizzes gently, like bottled warmth.

“Do I seem like a man who orders pink drinks?” He raises an eyebrow, not moving to take it.

“You must not be from around here,” I reply, sincehe’s right—he definitely doesn’t strike me as the sort of man who orders pink drinks.

But my hands lead the way, and I obey.

So, pink is what he gets.

“I’ll take it as a compliment that I don’t seem like I’m from a small town in Maine,” he says, sounding decently amused with himself.

“People come here from all over.” I shrug. “But I always remember a face. And yours…”

Is beautiful,I think, although of course, I hold back.

“I lost my cat,” he says simply. “Ended up finding him nearby, and this place seemed busy, so I figured I’d check it out.”

“Your cat?” I repeat, since normally, people come to the Maple Pig for my drinks. Not for acat.

“Correct.” He smirks and leans back in his chair. “His name’s Ghost.”

“And where’s Ghost now?”

“He’s waiting outside.” His eyes drop to my wrist—to the sapphire bracelet I never take off—apparently done talking about his cat. “That’s a beautiful bracelet.”

“My mom gave it to me,” I say, and I force a smile, wanting to change the subject. “So, are you going to try the drink?”

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