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I don't need every cocktail infused with some fancy herbs.

Let's just say that a mixologist is the kind of person who doesn't get invited to parties.

But I swallow my irritation like a barbed pill and try to smile.

"What can I get for you?"

She looks me up and down and says, "A dirty martini … extra dirty."

There's a glazed look in her eyes, and despite it only being a little after noon, I gather that she's drunk. Her lips are now turned up into a smile, and I realize that it mirrors the upturned shape of her nose.

Her words come out with a purr, and her eyes are searching my body. They move from my eyes, to my chest, and then down to my belt.

"You look familiar; where do I know you from?"

I shake my head and shrug my shoulders.

It isn't the first time I've seen a woman eye me like that. When I'm not tending a bar, I'm selling studio shots of myself for $600 a piece to be placed on book covers. Some women recognize me

from those covers, but I don't play it up. It doesn't make me rich, but it's not a bad life either.

I place ice in a shaker, and pull out a frozen martini glass.

"Do you have any extra olives back there?" the woman asks, leaning over and smashing her breasts against the bar.

"Sure," I say, keeping my eyes focused on the cocktail shaker and adding vodka, vermouth, and olive juice. "How many?

"They're free, aren't they?"

"I can give you a few."

"Give me as many as you can," she smiles. "That's why the Mediterranean diet is so good for you … it's all of those damn olives."

I shrug my shoulders and strain the cocktail into the glass.

"Here you go," I say, placing the martini in front of her. "And here are some extra olives."

She seems satisfied.

I wipe my hands on the bar towel slung over my back pocket, and I go back to organizing liquor bottles and replacing glasses. It's a slow day, but it's still early. It'll probably pick up later.

I'm wiping a pint glass and getting ready to set it down on the counter when a woman bursts into the bar.

As soon as I recognize the woman, my heart seems to freeze.

It's not any woman. It's Cara.

If there's ever been a more perfect woman, I dare you to find one because I've never seen one.

I've had a thing for Cara since the moment I first laid eyes on her. But she's always had a boyfriend, and I'm not the home wrecking type.

"Oh thank God," she says, "You're here."

She looks frantic. She throws her purse on a stool, and I notice a tremble in her hand.

"Is everything okay? Hard day at the office?"

"You have no idea. I mean, look at me!" she says. "I'm still shaking like a leaf."


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