Page 7 of Booked for the Holidays
I want to let her.
“How about every drink you try, I’ll show you a tattoo. Deal?”
She grins wide. “Deal. But fair warning, I’m tastingeverything.”
It shouldn’t mean anything. We’re two grown adults in a small-town liquor store tasting holiday samples, but the way she says everything curls around my ribs like a spark that won’t go out.
I lean my hip against the tasting table, tipping my empty sample cup toward her. “All right then. Pick the next drink.”
She grabs two tiny whiskey cider cups and hands me one. We clink them together, her pinky brushing mine. I down it, heat and cinnamon burning the back of my throat.
“Okay,” she says, eyes bright. “Show me one.”
I lift my left sleeve a few inches, turning my arm so she can see the black ink just inside my bicep. A simple compass tucked away so close you’d have to be let in to see it.
She steps closer to read the tiny letters, her head tilting to the side. The space between us shrinks, but I don’t move. “This one?” I say, voice low. “Got it when I landed my first real investment deal. Meant to remind me not to lose my direction. Or my backbone.”
She brushes a fingertip lightly over the lines. “Does it work?”
“Most days.” I smile, even though my throat’s tight. “Next?”
She presses another sample cup into my hand—spiced rum and cider this time.
When we set our cups down, I tug my collar down a bit to show her the small line of script near my collarbone. She leans in to read it, breath ghosting my throat. “What’s it say?”
“‘Only forward.’” My voice cracks a touch. “Same idea. No backtracking.”
Her eyes flick to mine. “So, what’s forward for you? After all the investor calls and quarterly reports, what’s next?”
I hesitate. Nobody ever asks me that. Not like this. Not like they might actually care about the real answer.
“Don’t tell Jasper,” I say, tipping my cup toward her in mock warning. “But if I weren’t tied up running numbers all day, I’d open a wine bar.”
Her smile blooms so warm I feel it in my chest. “A wine bar?”
“Yeah.” I look over at the shelves, the rows of dusty bottles. “Small, cozy. Good flights, pairings. A few quiet corners where people can come in and just…breathe. Maybe read. Talk. Fall in love.”
She laughs softly, brushing my arm with her hand like it’s the most normal thing. “Like a romance bookshop. But for wine.”
“Exactly.” I shrug, embarrassed at how much it means to say it out loud. “I guess it’s silly.”
“It’s not silly.” She says it so certain, so soft I almost lean in again. “It sounds perfect.”
I clear my throat, forcing my eyes away from her mouth. “All right. One more sample?”
She smirks, handing me the last tasting cup. “One more tattoo, Hargrove.”
I give her a look but lift my shirt anyway, just enough to show the slim line of ink under my ribs.
So it goes.
She squints, reading it, then her mouth curves. “Vonnegut?” she says, voice warm. “Slaughterhouse-Five?”
“Yeah.” I grin, a little sheepish. “Not exactly festive, I know.”
She shakes her head, eyes sparking with something I’m afraid to name. “It’s perfect for you.”
“Oh?” I arch a brow, fighting a laugh. “Why’s that?”
