Page 60 of Champagne Fizz

“Special?” I mull over the word in my head. Is asking the hottest guy you know to take your virginity special? Every coming-of-age movie I’ve ever seen would say,yes.“No, it’s nothing like that.”

I wave to the waiter and motion for him to bring over the champagne and orange juice. I need something fizzy and full of spritz to help me relax.

“Let’s just say,” I hedge, “that I might need a little liquid courage for this conversation.”

A lot of liquid courage.

Simon puts down his menu, his expression concerned.

Yup, I’m going to need an entire pirate ship full of booze.

“Look, last night …” Simon jumps in. “It’s possible I came off a little strong when Arie and the gang showed up. I wasn’t trying to—”

“Nope,” I interrupt, foolishly reaching forward and patting the back of his forearm, confirming that, yes, he really is Superman under his clothes. “Drinks first, then you can ask all the things.”

“I don’t want you drunk.”

“Simon …” I squeeze his arm and the jolt of heat that wicks through my chest is electric. “I’m not going to get trashed. But talking about my condition isn’t fun. It’s embarrassing. So, less judgment would be appreciated.”

I pry my hand off him just in time to take the fizzy orange mimosa the waiter walks up with. I order my breakfast, and as Simon is ordering his, I throw the entire mimosa back in a few seconds. I hand the empty champagne flute back to the waiter with a hiccup and announce thatthey’re bottomless after all, so he should keep ‘em coming.

“Yes, ma’am.” The waiter nods cautiously, eyeing Simon, who shrugs it off by saying—

“We’re on vacation.”

That sounds good, except this isn’t the type of off-the-beaten-path place tourists flock to. The waiter leaves, and I lean forward to swipe Simon’s untouched mimosa—only, he grabs my wrist and snatches it back.

“I thought you said you weren’t getting trashed?”

“Not trashed, but definitely buzzed,” I reply, watching him place the flute on the edge of the table as far away from me as he can put it.

“Buzzed is drunk, you know.”

“What are you,” I grumble, “a don’t-drink-and-drive PSA?”

“Please don’t do that either!”

“I can take an Uber home.”

“Other than the mimosa you just shot like it’s Sunny D,” Simon asks with a warning tone, “when was the last time you actually had an alcoholic drink?”

“I don’t know.” I shake my head, trying to think. “College maybe.”

“So you’re a light weight,” Simon concludes, “which means you have to drink lots of water. And also that coffee.” He pushes both of my non-alcoholic drinks toward me. “Finish these before the waiter comes back.”

“Why thank-you, mom! I didn’t know you cared so much.”

Simon shoots me a steely frown, which—it turns out—is incredibly hot.

“Hold on,” I correct myself, remembering. “I did have a sip of whatever flaming green drink Connor made when we had that original consultation at Flambé.”

“You had a sip,” Simon emphasizes.

“That doesn’t count?”

“I don’t know,” Simon replies, a sassiness coming back into his voice. “If I said ‘I’m going to put in just the tip’ would that count as intercourse?”

I flush scarlet.

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