Page 74 of Whiskey Splash

“Mmmmm,” I nod, pretending that number hasn’t fazed me. I close my eyes and smell the air, full of seawater and sand dollars and ripe emerald ribbons of kelp. A mermaid’s treasure trove in a small island breeze. I reach back and thread my fingers through the hair at the base of his scalp, below the ball cap, wanting to hold on, if only for this perfect uninterrupted moment.

“Hey, speaking of,” he says softly, and my fingers slip from the back of his head, falling down to the sand. “We’re actually going to be filming on one of the other islands for a few days.”

I sit up and turn my legs to the side, still in his lap, but now able to look at him. “You are?” I ask, trying to keep my voice down, but those aviator glasses are like mirrors and all I can see is my own reflections looking back at me—clearly disappointed and not wanting him to leave. An open book, that’s what I am, with every emotion written on my face as always. “That’s cool,” I say, turning my gaze back to the ocean, not able to look at myself in those silver mirrors, being way too obvious.

“Hey—” His hand turns my face back to him and he pulls his sunglasses off so I can see him. “I’d ask you to come with me. Honestly, that offerison the table, but I’m pretty sure you’d give me a lecture about—”

“Wanting to keep my job?” I say quickly, all of it leaking out of me like a balloon deflating. “Or how weird it would be for Tam’s old accountant buddy from college to be hanging around like a damn groupie?”

Desmond nods, knowing exactly how bad that sounds. “Something like that,” he agrees, those gold discs of his eyes never leaving me for a second. “But I swear, the second I get back, I want every free minute you have.”

He drags me forward into a fiendish kiss, a scandalous feeding of my mouth, that makes me gasp and unravel. It’s hungry and needy, and way too hot for the two of us out in public. I want to climb on top of him, straddle him, feel his arms and his mouth and count every gasp I draw out of him. That unspoken connection between us is thrumming, and I know that delicate teasing of his fingers on my stomach was all a charade, because he really does understand what little time there is before an entire ocean separates us.

The alarm on my phone goes off and I pull back—lips bruised, eyes black. He’s seen this look in me, wanting all of him, wanting to surrender. “When do you get back?” I ask breathlessly, the buzzer sounding at my hip. I’ve seen this look on him too, unafraid to taste every inch of my skin, ready to consume me in his fire.

“Friday,” he says.

“Always a damn Friday,” I hiss.

“Date night,” he jokes.

“If that’s what you want to call it,” I say in a tone too husky for him to miss. His eyes darken as I unravel myself from him, standing up and pulling my phone out of my pocket. I silence the incessant chirping, before looking back down at him.

We’ve reversed positions. Last time, I was the one on the tile below him, spread, and looking up at his glorious body. Now he’s the one in the sand, gazing up at me, with his eager eyes drifting over my outline like the ocean has served him up a rare feast.

I bend over and grab my hat from the sand, our ankles brushing, and the zip of electricity that lashes between my legs is inhumane, too hot for the tiny hint of our skin touching!

“I have to go back to work,” I manage to get out, and he nods, eyes flicking to my mouth. If I bend down into the sand to kiss him one last time, I know it will be over, we’ll be finding the nearest, dirtiest, public restroom and it won’t be pretty.

I step backwards instead. He doesn’t complain. He knows it’s the safest option.

“You leave today?” I clarify, and he nods.

“In a couple of hours.”

“Okay.” I stuff my phone into the back pocket of my shorts, and thread my feet through the rubbery thongs of my flip-flops. “Friday then.”

“Friday,” he nods again, below me, looking so damn gorgeous.

“I’ll text you my schedule.”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t nod. Doesn’t say anything. His hands are fisted in the sand, restraining himself. His eyes light on me like a dangerous match.

It’s my cue to go.

I nod and start walking up the beach toward the resort, wind in my hair, the taste of his mouth on my lips, my legs trembling. I let the wind blast through me, like on the zipline, filling me up with possibility and fearlessness. I let the wind swallow and consume me, hoping I’ll be able to make it in one piece to Friday.

Chapter Nineteen

Adreamy purple liquor sits in the belly of a martini glass with silver mist wafting from the surface like a cauldron bubbling. The smoke swirls around a plump blackberry that’s speared on a toothpick and balanced across the glass’s wide opening. It looks like Halloween and blackberry dreams mixed together in one delicious love affair.

“And what are we calling this glorious little beauty?” I ask, tapping my hand on the bar next to the drink.

It’s eleven in the morning at Flambé and the place is closed till the evening. Arie is behind the counter playing mixologist, and her boyfriend, Connor, sits at a table in the dining room rolling his eyes. He can take Arie to town in the mixology department and I’m surprised he’s not behind the bar making this invent-a-thon a competition. Instead, he lounges in a chair with his arms crossed, shaking his head like this has been going on for hours.

“That one’s a Flaming Phoenix,” Connor says, answering my question, nodding to the misty lavender concoction. “And, Dragon’s Blood.” He points to an elegant raspberry daiquiri sprinkled with thyme and set on fire. Then he gestures to the third, which smells like ginger beer and spiced rum. It’s the one Arie is currently working on, hand squeezing a wedge of passionfruit over the rim as she tries to light the spritz of juice on fire. “That one is something else altogether,” Connor says, baffled. “She read somewhere that you can light alcohol-soaked fruit juice on fire. It’s supposed to fizzle like a sparkler show, but she hasn’t mastered it yet.”

“I’m not a quitter!” Arie throws at him, not looking up, completely fixated on the drink as she picks up a soaked orange peel and sprays the mist across the mouth of the drink, flashing it with a brûlée torch to see if it will explode like Pompei. “Last I checked,” she says to Connor, “you liked my focus and endurance.”

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