Page 44 of Gin and Lava

“It’s the drink special,” I say, avoiding the flicker of heat in her eyes as I add vodka to her drink. I nod to the specials chalkboard where there’s an obscene drawing of a tongue tasting the sugar rim of a glass of lemonade, which I thought was funny.

“Oh, right,” she says, taking in the art and blushing.

I toss in a pink umbrella and push the glass toward her. “It’s on the house, Princess.”

Her eyes flick to me with the use of that nickname, and again I think she wants more than vodka and lemons.

“Oh, you didn’t have to make me a—” But then, she picks up the drink and throws back several large gulps.

She’s nervous.

What the fuck does Naomi Tate have to be nervous about?

“Day drinking!” I compliment. “A girl after my own heart.” I put my hands over my chest like she’s stolen it, but she pushes the half-empty glass away from her as quickly as she picked it up like she’s forgotten herself.

“I didn’t—” she mumbles awkwardly. “I don’t normally—I mean, I don’t drink in the middle of the day like some people who ...” she trails off, toying with the gold necklace at her collarbone nervously.

“It wasn’t a judgement, Tate.” I push the glass back toward her. “It’s a bar.”

Only, she doesn’t touch it.

“Okay. Well, if you didn’t come in to drink, then what can I do for you?” I ask, trying to break the tension.

“Right.” She blushes again, which seems out of character for Naomi, seeing that I’ve cast her as the Viking Princess. But honestly, that hint of red is hot as hell. She rifles through her purse, producing a piece of rolled-up fabric which she offers to me. “You forgot this in my truck.”

I raise an eyebrow and lean in to take it from her, laughing when I realize it’s my necktie from the wedding.

“You didn’t want to keep this as a trophy,” I say cheekily. “It’s not quite my dirty panties, but I bet you’ve got a trunk full of souvenirs from your conquests.”

Naomi shoots me a withering look—nowthere’sthe Viking goddess!

“I strike you as a dirty-panties collector, do I?” Her tone bold and teasing.

I lean forward and unroll the tie in my hands. “Either that, or you’ve stopped by to ask me to tie you up.” I make a snapping sound with the tie, pretending it’s two halves of a belt slapping together. Another wicked blush creeps up Naomi’s neck like she hadn’t thought of that option, but now she can’t un-imagine it.

“Look, Mason,” Naomi coughs uncomfortably and looks over her shoulder, “can we, uh, can we talk in private?”

Talking in private is code for I’m going to drop a shit-bomb on you. It’s bound to be something intense likeI’m pregnant,orI actually have a boyfriend and he’s going to tear your skeleton from your body and turn you into a lump of meat jelly.

“Uh …” I look dramatically from one end of the dining room to the next—the bar is empty as a church on a weekday. “There’s literally no one here,” I point out.

“Someone could walk in,” she says, lowering her voice. “One of your employees or—”

Fuck. Now, I am getting nervous.

“Naomi, there are drinks on my menu called Montezuma’s Orgasm and Give Me Head Hunters Punch.” I motion to the plethora of dirty names. “There’s nothing you can say in this bar that’s going to be worse than the raunchy-Mason-porn-star version of all the shit I’ve said. Trust me on that. So, what’s this”—I wave the tie at her—“really about?”

“You left that in my truck,” she says, avoiding whatever conversation she wants to have.

“And?”

“And I thought you should have it back.”

“And now I have it back.” I stare at her, waiting for her to say more. She squirms in her seat like I’m Ned giving her the tenth degree. “So …?”

Naomi’s eyes narrow, then she hops off her stool and steps back, allowing me to see her in full. That tight black dress looks phenomenal on her, and the gold jewelry and blonde hair make her look like she should be posing in a magazine. I swear she’s about to walk out, when she heads toward the back of my bar instead.

“Naomi?” I call after her, confused.

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