Page 17 of Sirens
McGarvey gestured to the array of components on the counter. Fresh mint. Limes. A glass jar of raw sugar. “How about a mojito?”
“Fine by me,” Maggie said. “The mint goes in first, right?”
“Right,” McGarvey said.
Maggie twisted off a small bunch of leaves and dropped them in the glass before reaching for the wood pestle.
McGarvey’s jaw flexed.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Go ahead,” he said, shaking his head. “Let’s see your technique.”
Looking at the pestle with its long, thick wooden shaft and blunt head, Maggie had a sudden flash of inspiration. Her skill set might just overlap with this particular activity after all…
Wrapping her fingers around the handle, she began to work it up and down within the glass. In the suddenly oppressive silence, Maggie would have sworn that she could hear the individual plant cells rupturing.
“What?” she demanded.
“Nothing,” he insisted.
“Look, you might as well tell me before that vein in your forehead bursts and you stroke out.”
McGarvey swept in like a man relieving an inept copilot of an airplane’s instrument array and quickly added a slice of lime and a spoonful of sugar.
“Gives you a little extra friction and helps release the zest’s essential oils,” he said.
“God forbid we don’t maximize the essential oils,” Maggie muttered before resuming her task.
Not even ten seconds had elapsed when she heard a muffled sound of dismay.
“What now?” she asked.
McGarvey’s toffee-colored eyes cut to the pestle. “May I?”
“Seeing as it’s that or listen to you aggressively grind your teeth, I’m going to say you may.” She stepped aside as much as the compacted space would allow and watched as his large, long-fingered hand wrapped around the blunt-ended wooden implement.
But it was her thoughts that were becoming muddled as her gaze strayed from the green pulp in the glass to the smooth ridges of muscle flexing in his forearm as he began to work the pestle.
“We’re just trying to open up the mint,” he explained, “not punish it for the sins of its ancestors.”
Maggie didn’t quite manage to stifle her snort, but his teasing only made her more flustered. Each time he gently corrected her, it set her freckled cheeks aflame.
“There,” McGarvey said, aiming the rim of the glass toward her so she could appreciate the perfectly pummeled contents.
“Sothat’swhat they mean by bruised?” she asked, despite already knowing the answer. If her years of investigative reporting had acquainted her with any truth, it was that men were always willing to teach you something.
“It’s all in the wrist,” he said, setting the pestle aside.
Yeahit was.
“So, what’s next?” she asked briskly, eager to move things along. “Do we add the bourbon now?”
Trent’s grin wilted.
“Kidding,” Maggie insisted. “I totally know bourbon doesn’t go in a mojito.” As of the last thirty seconds. “It’s rum, right?”
“Right,” he said, looking immeasurably relieved. “I like to add it first so the liquor can draw out the oils before we add more acid with the lime juice.”
