Page 8 of Sirens
“That obvious?” Maggie flashed that smile again. The one that would be considered indecent in some countries and probably the entire Bible Belt.
A trainee. She’d never been a bartender before, that was for fucking sure.
“No, I mean you’re not a local yokel, or I’d know ya.” Myrtle threw her knitted leopard-print beret on the counter and began to take off the matching fingerless gloves. The woman always looked like she’d stepped off a stage during Fashion Week, but not in the good way. In theWTF,no one would ever wear thatway. Today’s ensemble was something Trent would call Golden Girls Chic, where the leopard print was rainbow colored and somehow there were palm leaves on her pink shirt and sequins on her sunglasses and three-inch platform sandals.
He checked the windows just to make sure it was still February.
Yup. And raining.
“The fuck?” Myrtle grimaced after one sip of her drink and slid it back across the counter at Maggie. “No offense, honey, but this Slippery Nipple tastes like licorice-flavored lighter fluid! Here, try this.” She shoved the drink toward Trent. “One sip andtell me it’s not like a butterscotch suicide-bombed a Twizzlers factory.”
Curious, Trent reached for the stem of the glass only to be cock-blocked by Maggie.
“Oops!” She relieved the woman of her glass and poured the abomination into the sink. “Must have gotten your drink and someone else’s mixed up in the middle.”
“Or…accidentally traded Irish cream for butterscotch, which…” Trent offered to Maggie beneath his breath with a shudder.
Drink probably tasted like cough syrup.
Maggie blanched. “Then what even makes it extra slippery?”
“The grenadine.” He couldn’t help but grin. “Amaretto if you’re feeling sassy.”
Trent bet himself his next paycheck that she’d add the amaretto and
When proximity roped him into the conversation, he did his best to follow Vee’s warbly tale of woe regarding a missed shipment of monster-themed dildos to her sex-positive, vagina-oriented boutique. Much as a story including Vee’s Lady Garden made for a good yarn, his attention remained arrested by Townsend Harbor’s newest character.
Trent was pleased to see that Maggie nailed Myrtle’s drink on her second try, and his libido noticed that she’d poured the amaretto in his line of sight.
Shewantedhim to know she was feeling sassy.
Message received.
“Are you a local lush, or just passing through?” Maggie returned to Trent when she noticed his glass was empty.
“Recent transplant,” Trent answered, enjoying the lo-fi background music and intimate lighting. “Got soul weary in the city, trying the small-town life on for size.”
“Oh yeah?” She scooped ice into two glasses for a classic G&T on the rocks. “What city?”
“You’ve never been there.” He laughed, trying to picture her ginger skin beneath the unrelenting Southwest sun.
She snorted and tossed him a look full of attitude. “I’ve been just about everywhere, you don’t know?—”
“Albuquerque.”
Her mouth tipped down. “Okay. Yeah. Never been there,” she mumbled with a self-deprecating laugh.
Trent was a big fan of not sayingI told you sowhen it was obvious, so he basked in the unspoken victory, enjoying her discomfiture more than he ought to.
Why was itsosexy when someone could laugh at themselves?
“Okay, smarty-pants,” she challenged, leaning over the bar in a way that deepened her cleavage to indecent levels. “Any more words of wisdom before I make your next Manhattan?”
“Actually, yes,” he retorted, feigning seriousness. “You can shake a martini, fine. But never shake a Manhattan without asking. I prefer my vermouth unbruised.”
“Fuck off, you can bruise alcohol?”
Trent almost did a spit take of his last sip but wrestled the unappealing brew down his gullet. “Do you have blackmail on Chris?” he asked, wondering why the fuck Sirens’ owner would hire such an obvious newbie at the town’s favorite watering hole without more extensive training.
