Page 22 of Promise Not To Fall

1 ½ parts Uncle Val’s Botanical Gin

¼ part Aperol

2 parts grapefruit juice

½ part simple syrup

Combine all ingredients with ice cubes and shake in a Boston shaker. Pour into a sugar-rimmed double rocks glass and garnish with a rosemary sprig.

“Seriously, Jake. I am twenty-seven and single. It must be for a reason.”

“It’s not like you’re old, for Christ’s sake. You’ve not even thirty. You’ve got time.”

He doesn’t know what he’s talking about. He’s a baby. “And what are you… eighteen?” I stare at him, wanting to know more about him. He seems guarded in a sense. Maybe he’s been hurt before. Or maybe he doesn’t want to give his life story to some drunk chick in his bar. There’s that.

“I work in a bar….” He laughs, but it fades as he hands a man two stools down from me a bottle of what looks like their version of Corona. “So I have to be at least twenty-one.”

“It’s the Bahamas. They probably don’t have child labor laws.”

“This isn’t China.”

“True.” I smile. The man with the beer smiles too, the whites of his eyes standing out against the darkness of his skin. He leaves the bar, returning to a table of about four women.

Jake leans into the bar, our eyes on one another. The heat from his body is damn near intoxicating. I swallow, unsure what else to do. “How old do you think I am?”

“I told you… eighteen.”

Jake’s eyebrows lift, seeming to consider my comment. A smile curves his lips as his eyes warm. “Well, I’m flattered.”

“Okay, I’ll bite. How old?”

He fights off a smile as he whispers, “Twenty-four.”

“Wow.” My cheeks flush. “I’m flirting with a baby.”

“Oh, don’t be mean.” A gruff laugh comes out of him, his eyes sliding over my face. “I’m still fully capable of showing women a good time.”

“I bet you are, Island Boy.”

A couple at a table on the deck hollers for Jake, seeming to need him to solve an argument. He walks up to them, so I turn slightly on the barstool and watch their interaction. Jake takes a seat next to the woman, who appears to be in her late forties, then drapes his arm over her shoulders. He has excellent customer service skills. I noticed it before when he would serve the patrons at the bar, including me. He leans in, as if to offer his sole attention to them, giving them the attention they deserve.

The group at the table talk for a while—old friends, maybe—before Jake returns.

“Regulars?” I ask, curious.

He nods, never divulging too much, and turns the conversation on me once again. “What do you do for work?”

“I’m a personal assistant.”

“For who?”

“Athletes, actors, singers… whoever needs me.”

He bites back a smile, turning the conversation dirty. “Is that so?”

“Not like that,” I have to say when his smile covers his entire face. I’m sure he’s imagining I’m some “special” kind of personal assistant. Like a happy-ending personal assistant. And though there have been times where my job has led to sleeping with clients, it isn’t always like that.

“If you say so. I bet you’re good,” he adds, low and husky with a sweet edge to his voice. “How many people do you do that for?”

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