Page 18 of A Love Letter to Whiskey
“You’re drunk, Jamie Shaw.”
“And are you, B Kennedy?”
I clicked the blend option and spoke over the noise of ice breaking. “I’m getting there.” I eyed him, my head tilted to the side as I tried unsuccessfully to figure out what had changed. Jamie seemed more dangerous that night. He stood too close, watched me for too long. It was unnerving, but in an oddly pleasing way. “What have you been drinking, anyway?”
“Whiskey,” he answered easily, and a short laugh escaped my lips.
“Of course. I should have guessed.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
I shrugged, using a spoon to break up a large ice chunk before replacing the top on the blender and turning it on again. “Just makes sense. You’re practically whiskey on legs, anyway. The color of your hair, your eyes, the way you smell — it’s like your spirit drink.”
“I remind you of whiskey?”
“In every sense of the word,” I murmured, maybe too low for him to hear. I thought of how his skin burned mine when he touched me, how just being in his vicinity made my limbs tingle.
I realized then that it was harder pretending like he didn’t affect me when he was no longer tied to my best friend.
“We should do a shot.” Jamie pushed off the counter and grabbed the only bottle of Jack Daniel’s, filling two of my mom’s shot glasses to the rim before turning back to me. He slid the one branded with the downtown casino’s logo into my hand and lifted the other.
“I’m making a tequila drink,” I pointed out. “Mixing will probably screw me in the long run.”
“Nah, you’ll be fine.”
“I don’t know, Jamie…”
“Oh come on,” he challenged, taking a small step toward me. It was tiny, barely even an inch, but suddenly I felt the heat from him surrounding me and I picked at my tank top with my free hand, desperate for a breeze. “Don’t you want a little whiskey on your lips?”
My eyes shot to his, because I knew as well as he did that there was more than one question beneath the one he’d voiced out loud. He cocked a brow, waiting, and though I should have pushed him back, made space, poured up a margarita and walked away from him, I lifted my glass to his instead.
“To bad decisions.”
His grin widened, his eyes never leaving me as I tilted my head back, letting the amber liquid coat my throat. Jamie took his slower than I did, inhaling through his teeth as the burn settled in.
And just like that, I’d taken my first shot. I didn’t tell Jamie it was my first one, I didn’t think I needed to. I wanted to hate it, to detest it, to grimace and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and reach for a chaser. But we set the glasses back on the counter slowly, our fingers brushing, and Jamie’s eyes were on my lips where leftover whiskey remained. My tongue traced the liquid, and he inhaled stiffly, eyes snapping up to mine.
Cat, meet mouse.
• • •
My mom was going to murder me.
Nearly everyone was gone now, the time on my phone reading 3:47AM. Everyone except for Jenna, who was passed out in my bed, Ali, a basketball player in my grade, who was curled around the same toilet Mom had been hugging the night she told me about Dad, and Jamie, who had stayed to help me clean what little we could once the last of the party had cleared out.
The carpets were ruined, that much I could tell for sure. I could probably salvage the cabinets and tables with a good scrub down and I’d need to search every corner for trash. Sticky cups had been gathered and thrown away, but shot glasses still littered the kitchen and various spots in the living room. It reeked of alcohol, a smell I wasn’t exactly sure how to get rid of at the time, and I was supposed to work in seven hours.
“I have to call out,” I finally said, blowing out a breath as I surveyed our surroundings.
Jamie looked around, too, running a hand through his long hair. “When does your mom get home?”
“Late tomorrow night.” I checked my phone again. “Or should I say, late tonight.”
“You’ve got time. It’s not too bad.” I leveled my eyes and he bit back a smile. “Okay, so the carpet is shot, but everything else is fixable.”
“My TV remote is missing.”
“Replaceable.”
“There’s a mustache made out of spitting tobacco on my face in one of the only family pictures we have.”
Jamie tucked his hands into the pockets of his dress pants. “Yeah, you’re kind of screwed.”
“I told you what would happen if I mixed alcohol,” I teased, trying to find humor in the situation while I still could.
Jamie crossed the living room to where I was standing, his eyes bloodshot but still beautiful. “Let’s get out of here for a while.”
