Page 18 of Sirens
“Makes sense.” Maggie grabbed the rum and unscrewed the lid.
McGarvey slid a double-sided silver jigger between the bottle and the glass. “We’ll need one and a half ounces.”
“What is it with men and measuring?” Maggie poured out what seemed like an exceedingly stingy amount of the clear liquid and upended it into the glass.
“Now you’ll want three-quarters of an ounce of lime juice.” McGarvey handed her another wooden implement with what looked like a rudimentary drill bit at one end.
Becauseof coursehe expected her to juice the limes herself.
Maggie grabbed one from the bowl and plopped it onto the cutting board for dissection.
“Can I show you a trick?” McGarvey asked.
“Several, I’d wager.”
“What?” he asked.
“What?” she repeated.
Placing his wide palm over the fruit, McGarvey began to roll it on the cutting board in smooth strokes. “Releases the juices,” he explained.
Boy, does it ever.
Scarcely had the tip of Maggie’s knife pierced the gleaming green skin than a little spurt shot up.
“Oops,” she said, proceeding with a modicum more caution. “I usually get a little warning before that happens.”
McGarvey’s warm chuckle allowed her shoulders to sink away from her ears as he placed a small wire strainer over the glass measuring cup. “Disembowel at will.”
This, at least, Maggie did with enthusiasm, stopping when the pale green liquid nudged the one-eighth cup notch on the cup’s side.
“Perfect,” he said. “Toss it in.”
Maggie decanted the juice into the glass.
“Ice,” McGarvey said. Leaning down below the counter, he pulled on a handle that revealed a slim freezer drawer. Inside, Maggie saw several varieties of ice in all shapes and sizes, from oversized Old Fashioned cubes, to delicate spheres with slices of lemon and orange suspended in their perfectly transparent centers.
“Wow,” she said, her eyes widening. “I thought only those OCD TikTokers actually did this shit.”
McGarvey gave her that knee-softening grin as he pulled out a metal tray. “OCD TikTokers and motherfuckers like me from the Southwest.”
“Becaaause heat stroke?” she guessed.
“Because sometimes air conditioning and a cold beverage is all that stands between a you and a desperate act.”
Maggie narrowed her eyes at him in exaggerated scrutiny. “Is this where you pull out an ice pick and make vaguely menacing comments?”
One of McGarvey’s dark brows lifted as he pressed a tab on the side of the tray that made the iconic cracking sound.
“Oh,” Maggie said, pulling the tray toward her.
“About five cubes ought to do,” he said.
“Really?” she asked. “Exactly five?”
Heat radiated from McGarvey’s broad chest as he turned his torso to face her. “That ice is going to turn into water, and the amount of water it adds to the drink is as important as every other component we’ve added.”
He had a point. Maggie really hated it when that happened.
