Page 17 of Code Red Chemistry

He chuckles and dips his chin. “There’s probably a utility room in the back, but I meant staying sober.”

“Worried if I have a cocktail in hand, it might end up thrown in your face?”

“No,” he admits quietly. “I’m not worried about that anymore.”

The gentle gruffness in his voice makes my pulse jump. Cocky used to be his mode of operation, but not tonight, it seems.

“I know what you were doing at the auction, by the way,” I say as we stroll. “With the wholeideal woman being someone intelligent and driventhing.”

He feigns ignorance. “Not sure I remember what you’re talking about.”

“Really?” I say, not believing his faulty memory for a minute. “What a coincidence your perfect first date is dancing under the stars on a rooftop in Hell’s Kitchen and talking until sunrise.”

“Coincidence or reality?”

“I wouldn’t exactly refer to that night as a first date.”

“Maybe not, but you were a captive audience at the auction, and I have learned I can’t waste a single opportunity when it comes to you.”

“That so?”

“It is.”

I don’t have a comeback for that, so it’s good it’s only another few yards until we arrive at the brownstone. The chalkboard A-frame out front welcomes folks to a mocktail masterclass. Not what I would have expected, but I’m finding, with this new Levi, things aren’t always what they seem. And the mystery is still something I’m trying to unravel.

We step inside the speakeasy-style space, all exposed brick and copper accents with hanging herbs. After checking in, the instructor, sporting a man bun and elaborate sleeve tattoos, shows us to the last open station. Half a dozen or so fill the room and are set up in pairs facing a demo table, complete with a video screen mounted from the ceiling above.

“You’d better watch out, Reyes,” I murmur, scanning the assorted ingredients at our table, including fresh mint, cucumber, lime, simple syrup, and a variety of bases including some bottles of fancy artisanal tonic water.

“Why’s that?”

“I have everything here for a virgin mojito.”

Levi’s mouth quirks up at one corner as he rolls up his sleeves, exposing those tempting forearms that draw my gaze. But before he can respond, the instructor blows across a pan flute to get everyone’s attention.

Yes, a pan flute. But we are in Williamsburg, after all, and this part of Brooklyn tends to be rather artsy.

“Everyone, please welcome your ingredients into your space,” our instructor intones. “Connect with their energy before we begin.”

Other participants don’t appear fazed by the suggestion, but Levi and I glance at each other and share a mutual eyeroll, the kind that says everything without words.

Levi picks up a sprig of rosemary and twirls it dramatically.

“Namaste, rosemary,” he whispers in my ear, his breath hot against my skin.

I stifle a laugh, grateful we’re not the ones taking this seriously.

“Pretty sure pan flute guy teaches goat yoga on weekends,” I murmur back.

Levi’s eyes dance with mischief, and I can’t help but feel the look down at the soles of my feet.

Ten minutes later, we’re muddling organic spearmint in the bottom of highball glasses. The sharp, clean scent mingles with Levi’s spicy cologne.

“You don’t need to go at it that hard,” I say, watching him attack the herbs in his glass with a vengeance.

“That’s not what you said the other night.”

I roll my eyes but can’t help the smile that fills my face as I shake my head.

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