Page 11 of Promise Not To Fall

2 parts Old Overholt ® rye

1 part simple syrup

1 ½ parts fresh orange juice

¼ part fresh lime juice

6 fresh raspberries

2 dashes orange bitters

Directions: Place raspberries in a mixing glass. Add remaining ingredients and ice. Shake and then loosely strain into a Collins glass. Garnish with an orange peel.

“You like?” Island Boy asks, coming around the side of the bar. I just finished the drink and slid it across the bar.

“Very much so.” I look behind the bar at the wall scattered with more of those vintage signs, only the ones behind the bar are beer signs. “What should I try next?”

He quirks an eyebrow at me. “Sweet or sour?”

“Sweet?”

He nods, bends forward, and reaches for another couple of bottles under the bar and starts mixing up another drink. This one has a few more steps to it and has him mixing in multiple cups, shaking and then pouring it into a martini glass with a garnished lime peel on the side.

“Enjoy.” He tosses a paper coaster on the bar and then idly sets the drink down.

I’m thankful he’s using a coaster this time. Last time he didn’t, and the ice had gotten drops of water on the bar. I had to use a napkin to soak them up for my own sanity. I eye the martini glass, lifting it from the bar. “What’s this one called?”

“Frost bite.” He smiles, but it doesn’t touch his eyes like the first one did. Instead, he’s more focused on the restaurant portion of the bar, his eyes darting from table to table.

Another bartender passes by, moving around Island Boy to the other side of the bar, where a couple is sitting with a basket of food.

My stomach growls. “You serve food here too?”

“Yeah.” He nods and shuffles another menu my way. “Fish and chips are good.”

Mulling over the menu, I watch my surroundings out of the corner of my eye and notice the girls surrounding the bar at the other end from where I sit. It seems they’re enjoying the view as well.

Damn. Competition.

Out of the two bartenders, I know exactly which one is everyone’s favorite in the candy store. The one serving my drinks.

He comes back over, his attention on the other bartender, and then back to me. “Nash, can you cash them out?” he says, finally returning his beautiful island eyes to mine. “Ya want some food too?”

“Since you say they’re good”—I hand him the menu, not making eye contact—“I’ll have the fish and chips.”

Taking the menu, he nods and disappears around the corner to what I assume is the kitchen.

As I sit here, drinking, I begin to unwind and feel like I’m on vacation for once. Most of the time when I take a vacation, it’s not for me and I’m on edge the entire time. My time is spent taking care of others, and on the slim chance I have a free moment, I never allow myself to get drunk in fear I won’t pay close enough attention to detail.

Taking another sip of my drink, I decide to just finish it because that means he might return. Swirling the tiny straws around in the ice, I let out a small burp and cover my mouth with the back of my hand.

Real ladylike, Kendall.

Thankfully, nobody heard me.

Island Boy is shaking his head at something as he approaches. “Look at you. Drinking someone away, are we?” He grins, and it makes my stomach flip-flop in my belly.

The other bartender—who I am now referring to as “Surfer Boy” due to his blond hair, blue eyes, and stereotypical surfer looks—joins us. Anyway, he stands beside Island Boy, nudging his shoulder. “I bet his name is, like, Brock or Brody… or somethin’ like that.”

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