Page 45 of Longing for Liberty
I wondered how old these bottles were—if they were from before the takeover or if the Secretary had a network on the secret market sneaking items in from other countries while the rest of us would be sent to the work prisons for such a thing.
My neck prickled with panic, even knowing we were safe.
“It’s okay,” he said. “Come here.” I moved closer as he poured Jameson into one of the mugs he’d taken down. “Which would you like?”
“Oh, no,” I said, shaking my head. “None, sir. Please.”
“Which one, Liberty? You’re safe here.”
I really didn’t want any. It felt so wrong. But I also realized this was a chance to further earn his trust. I eyed the amaretto and bit my bottom lip. His lips quirked up on the side for a millisecond before he took that bottle and poured a shot into my cup. I let out a nervous laugh and covered my mouth. The sound earned me a sensual look from the Secretary. For one heated moment I thought he’d bend me over the counter right then, but he held back.
I cleared my throat and went to the coffee maker. It was unlike any I’d used before, looking more like an espresso machine.
“I’ve never used one like this before,” I admitted.
“I’ll show you.”
It had a little rounded cup that he filled with coffee grounds, and I took in a huge whiff of the rich scent. Then the lid closed over the cup, and he pressed a button to start the process. It was basically an espresso machine, filling with hot water, then pressing down and opening a lever to drip the coffee into the cup. My heart was beating like crazy knowing one of these cups was mine.
I didn’t usually make coffee for the Secretary. He had his in the morning before I even arrived, so I wasn’t sure what to do with the dregs when it was done. I pulled out the cup and looked at him.
“Do you reuse these?”
His forehead creased. “No. Toss them.”
Oh, my gosh. It was such a waste! I could make coffee for days from these grounds, and though it would be weak, it would still be incredible. And then we could throw the grounds into the garden. It took all my willpower to put the hot grounds into the trash.
When the cups were both filled on the counter, Fitzhugh asked, “Do you take milk or sugar?”
“Um…milk, maybe?”
“No sugar?” he eyes me with curiosity.
“Before, I only used a little cream. No sugar. I was watching my figure back then.”
“Well.” He pulled over a small crock and took off the lid, then reached into the refrigerator and took out the milk. “You don’t need to count calories today.” I watched as he poured milk into my mug, then a scoop of sugar, and stirred it. It was beyond strange to have him doing this for me and then serving me the cup.
“Cheers, Liberty.”
“Cheers, Secretary Fitzhugh.”
“Amos.” We both raised our mugs a few inches, and he said, “Call me Amos.”
“Yes, sir…I mean…Amos.”
He raised his black coffee with whiskey to his lips and took a long draught as I raised mine carefully and sipped.
Oh. My. Good. Gosh.
I closed my eyes as the flavors danced over my tongue, and the slight burn of heat slid down my throat to my belly. He gave that chuckle again, and I couldn’t hold back the huge smile that came to my face. It felt foreign, igniting muscles that hadn’t been used in so long. I let out a small laugh and covered my mouth again. The Secretary took my hand down and stared at my face.
“Your smile is gorgeous.”
I dropped my gaze to my coffee, that feeling of guilt from earlier returning like a tractor-trailer with no brakes.
“Drink your coffee. It’ll be our secret.”
I took another sip, eyeing him over the cup before saying, “Thank you.”
