Page 5 of Sirens
And then she died a little.
Because hewasn’tperfect.
But he wasn’t perfect in the most devastatingly attractive ways.
When those obscenely beautiful lips parted in a smile, they revealed the tiniest gap between his perfectly straight, perfectly white teeth. And when that smile reached his leonine eyes, a slim, dusky scar slicing his left eyebrow gave the lid a sleepy, sexy squint. Like a never-ending wink.
When that wink made him cock his head to look up at her, the last rays of coastal sunset revealed another scar just under his meticulously shaved jaw.
And when that jaw flexed in preparation to speak, Maggie felt her knees go all buttery.
“Hey,” he said, flicking the briefest of glances toward her name tag, “Madison.”
And the sound of it was so warm, so friendly, she almost forgot that Madison wasn’t even her real name, just what happened to be on the name tag bestowed on her by Chris, Sirens’ tough-as-nails and twice-as-practical owner, who didn’t want to go the trouble of having a new one made—a process that clearly involved a wood-burning tool on a mermaid-tail-shaped plaque—since Maggie had no intention of being a long-term employee.
“I go by Maggie,” she said for reasons she couldn’t fathom. “And you are?”
“Trent,” he said. The smile deepened, and so did the odds of Maggie/Madison wobbling on her totally adorable if not totally practical Vince Camuto booties.“But everyone around here calls me McGarvey.”
“Trent,” she repeated, then stood there frozen in the tractor beam of his smile for a span of time she was afraid to calculate.
Only when a staccato cackle of women’s laughter drew his eye toward the bar did Maggie find the presence of mind to continue.
“I would like to know what you find so objectionable about this drink.” She set the glass down on the table, only to notice that in the time that it had taken her to walk from the kitchen, the foam had all but disappeared, and the contents separated into something that now resembled spoiled milk.
A crease appeared in the center of his smooth, brown brow as he considered the glass, then looked back at her.
“Taste it,” he said.
Maggie swallowed hard, alarmed by the odd flutter developing behind her apron. “I don’t need to taste it,” she said, her voice lacking anything even remotely resembling conviction. “I know it’s right because I followed the recipe.”
“Recipe.” Trent chuckled as he leaned back in his chair, the movement releasing the olfactory equivalent of a pheromone freight train. “Recipes are fine if you’re baking a cake or mixing concrete. Butcocktails…”
Was it her imagination, or had he placed just the tiniest hint of extra emphasis oncock?
“Cocktails are a sensory experience,” he continued. “Temperature. Flavor balance. You have to develop a sense for it. And you can’t develop a sense for it if you don’t use yours.Taste it.”
Maggie saw his gaze flick toward her fingers as she reached for the glass, one corner of his mouth curling as he registered her nails. His eyes tracked her hand as she lifted it toward her lips, meeting hers above a rim lacy with the remnants of egg-white suds.
Milliseconds before she put her mouth where his had been, she spotted a shock of expertly styled salt-and-pepper hair in a clump of patrons gathering near the door.
Bingo.
The pilot light of her curiosity flared into urgency, burning away the magnetic hold this TrentWhateverthefuckhad over her.
“Look, you don’t like the drink, try ordering something off the menu next time,” she said, adding an extra dash of South Shore sass.
Trent leaned forward, his dark eyes boring into hers. “Fine. I’ll have a Manhattan, then.”
Maggie opened her mouth, but no retort came. The crowded room rose in temperature by twenty degrees.
“Coming right up.” She felt his gaze on her as she made her way back to the bar might have worked a little extra swing into her hips as she slid behind it.
Her hands trembled with a brew more potent than any she could craft as she reached for the bourbon, her attention fixed on her target as he made his way through the crush. Shaking hands. Slapping backs. Bestowing veneered grins of the proper self-deprecating wattage.
Until, at last, he parked on the stool she’d done her utmost to ensure remained empty for his arrival. The fact that she’d had actual provocation to unceremoniously evacuate the fire chief had just been an added bonus.
“Hello there.” Maggie slid a cocktail napkin across the bar and gave him what she hoped was a winning smile. “What can I get for you, handsome?”
