“And to think we were almost stuck with just wine, until a real bartender arrived,” she says.
“Surely that’s why Nisha sent the dog van for me,” I say as I measure out the whiskey.
“And I’m so glad she did.” Jillian takes a sip of her drink and gives an approving moan. “This is divine.”
“You’re going to make me jealous, babe,” Jones says in a deep rumbly voice that suits his big frame.
I wag a finger. “No jealousies at my traveling bar, hun. All my drinks are equally divine.”
“Excellent,” Jones says, and when I slide an old-fashioned his way, he joins in the drink moaning too.
They’re a fun couple—she has an Ali Wong vibe about her, and he’s the all-American football star with a dry wit. Ordinarily, I’d chat them up about the sport, work, and dogs, since they train their Chihuahua mixes to do agility competitions.
But I’m not in my best mood today, so I return to mixing and slinging drinks, serving up concoctions for the other guests. Like Tobey, who’s single, as well as Brooks and Steven, who remind me of Jesse Williams and Tom Ellis. They both do non-profit PR and have been together nearly a year. And Reese and Holden, one of Owen’s PR friends and her baseball player beau who’s on Owen’s team.
Which means Owen is wearing his game face as he slices carrots.
He can’t help it. Every time he interacts with a ball player, his instinct is to look out for their needs. It’s why he’s good at his job. It’s why he’s risen up through the ranks at the San Francisco Dragons.
But it’s also bugging the hell out of me today.
Then again, everything is, and I hate being annoyed.
It’s not in my nature.
And yet . . .
“You have to do the Big Dipper run on Heavenly, Reese. It’s exhilarating,” Owen tells the blonde, then turns to Holden. “But you will just sit and wait in the ski lodge like a good second baseman who’s not allowed to play any sports besides baseball.”
Holden salutes him. “Aye-aye, boss.”
I bristle, annoyance ratcheting up in me.
And I definitely need a drink now, since there’s no way Owen is going to let down his guard here, so I mix myself an old-fashioned too.
Another tall, strapping man—I’m not complaining about the eye candy, even though there’s only one piece of candy I want—shifts closer to me. “Want to send one of those bad boys my way?” TJ asks as he pulverizes potatoes with a masher.
“Nothing goes better with mashed potatoes than . . . well, than everything,” I say as I mix. “They go with literally everything.”
“Mashed potatoes are a perfect dish,” TJ seconds. “As long as there’s butter in them.”
“And I will drink to that, hun,” I say.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Owen’s spine straighten.
He whips his gaze to me. Behind those glasses, his eyes flick from me to TJ and back.
I want to tell him I’m not flirting with his friend.
I’m just . . . in bartender mode.
Just like he’s in PR guy mode.
And, usually, those settings work just fine for us.
Right now, though, I’m not keen on either one, but I do my best to mix and chat, making small talk with everyone. The whole time, I’m sneaking glances at Owen as he meticulously slices carrots.
I’ve never noticed how he slices vegetables before.
Why would you, dipshit? You don’t ordinarily watch people slice carrots.
But it’s not the way he’s cutting the veggies that’s transfixing me. It’s his hands. Those hands felt so good all over my body last night. They felt incredible in my hair, down my arms, on my waist.
Great.
Now I’m getting turned on in the kitchen while I should focus on my Friendsgiving job. Listening, asking questions, mixing drinks. Being an excellent guest.
But dear Lord, it was heaven when Owen roped his fingers through mine in the hot tub. How he held me.
My stomach flips from the memory.
I want to walk over to him right now, set his knife down, take his hand and tell everyone he’s mine, just mine, all mine.
But I won’t put him on the spot in front of his friends. In front of his colleagues.
I can’t assume he wants what I want, and I definitely can’t just smash my way into his love life like a bull in a china shop.
You don’t tell someone you’re crazy about him in the middle of a public event. I won’t do it.
Instead, I knock back the rest of my old-fashioned.
“So, how did you two meet?” I ask Jillian and Jones, and the pair of lovebirds launches into the tale.
I am interested as they tell me the story.
At least, I’m doing my very best to be, and I hope my face doesn’t reveal where my thoughts truly are.
Maybe it’s my fault, but “how did you meet” becomes the question at dinner a few hours later.