Page 12 of Sirens
“Then come by afterward,” he offered, fully aware that he’d said it far more casually than he meant it.
Something about her sent every instinct he had into overdrive. This wasn’t just an intervention, it was an investigation.
Nah, not that serious. Notassigning it a case number and establishing a filekind of serious. More like…an exploratory expedition.
Because Maggie wasn’t what she was claiming to be…and to him, she’d just become a person of fucking interest.
Even though the only crimes thus far had been against their livers.
“Are you sure you want to risk teaching me?” she asked playfully, her voice laced with sarcasm and a little bit of sin. “I mean, Ididjust almost burn down the pub.”
“I’m not scared,” Trent lied, more nervous for the damage she could wreak on his taste buds, liver, and carpeting than anything.
Maggie snagged the little plastic skewer of maraschino cherries from the dregs of his glass and slid them past her plump, glossed lips with a smile that could have set the devil on fire.
“You probably should be.”
THREE
Muddle
TO MASH INGREDIENTS WITH A MUDDLER, A SPECIAL TOOL FOR GRINDING AND CRUSHING INGREDIENTS INTO THE BOTTOM AND SIDES OF A GLASS
This was a mistake.
Maggie had known it when she accepted Trent McGarvey’s invitation for a crash course in cocktails.
She’d known it when she reached for her lacy La Perla bra and matching thong instead of her comfortable cotton crotch covers.
She’d known it when she fibbed to Mark Kelly about her plans for the evening.
She’d known it when she’d given Roxie—her blind, bipolar Peekapoo—an extra scoop of kibble and promised to be back early.
She’d known it with every step that carried her from her temporary sublease two blocks down Water Street.
And she knew it now, standing on the second-story landing outside the door to McGarvey’s place with her knuckles poised toknock and the damp chill of a February evening still clinging to her coat.
It wasn’t too late. If she turned around right now, she could slip down the stairs and back out into the night. Send an apologetic text message. Promise to do it another time.
And then what?
Now that Maggie’s hopes that her first day as a lackluster bartender would be heronlyday as a lackluster bartender had been thoroughly dashed, her options were limited.
Option one: scrap the bartending gig, even if it meant blowing her chances of getting information from MayorSpewart, as she now knew several of the locals called him.
The very idea made her stomach clench like a fist.
Gabe had said Townsend Harbor’s famously douchey first dude was a talker once moderately lubed, and sheneededhim to talk. And just because the mayor had bounced nanoseconds after arriving yesterday didn’t mean he’d do that every time.
Ergo, option two: stick it out at Sirens a little longer.
Which raised another important question: wouldn’t it be a good idea to actually learn a little bit about the art of cocktail making so as not to completely alienate Chris’s clientele?
Damn straight it would.
Sucking in a deep breath, Maggie took a moment to arrange herself for the all-important first look. Fluffing her hair. Reaching inside her coat to wiggle her underwire back below her boob crease. And last but certainly not least, wrestling the overly enthusiastic elastic band of her waist-snatching body shaper back over the soft swell of flesh that had escaped its confines on the walk over.
Then, and only then, did she square her shoulders and raise her hand to knock.
