“Shit, sweetheart, that’s bigger than the ones in Cracker Jack boxes from my childhood.”
“Why do you think I’d leave my established and . . .” I lean close. My palm falls provocatively onto his shoulder as I whisper the next part in his ear. “Well-endowed husband for you? Last name’s MacKenzie, by the way. Haven’t heard of them? Look them up before you react.”
His muscles stiffen beneath my touch, indicative of his awareness. The jackass crowd of friends surrounding the table whoop, eager to catch our sidebar discussion. The patrons who were wary of the slight shift in the atmosphere take a new interest in the heated flush creeping over his neck. The little bastard is silently calling me out of my name as the soft kneading of my hand shifts into an iron hold.
I’m damn near kissing his ear when I add, “Just say ‘I’ll keep that in mind, Queen.’ ”
“I’ll . . . uh . . . keep that in mind, ahem, gorgeous.” He winks as I sashay away.
“Lucky bastard,” one says.
“Me next!”
Behind the bar, Quinn pauses. “Wow, Justice told me how well you handle the younger, raucous crowd.”
I take a dishrag to the counter. “The ones who confuse this place for their very own members-only club.”
Her head drops back in defeat. “By this time of night, I’m liable to speak my mind.”
“She did,” Michie cuts in.
“Yeah, right,” she quips.
“Quinn, I’ll give you a pointer so that you can finesse the guy in the thousand-dollar pair of shoes.” I gesture toward an elder gentleman strolling inside, wearing a cobalt blue suit. The stream of orders has stalled, creating a perfect opportunity. With our code of ethics as bartenders, Quinn should take this round.
Quinn nods. Michie discreetly shakes his head no. So far tonight, he’d been approachable. Now, money flashes in his eyes. I glean how he’s aiming toward an economic approach. “Chevelle, handle it. Quinn, you’ll watch her superpower from afar.”
Mr. Big Money sits in an alcove where business deals occur, or lovers hide away. Quinn has taken an order, but her eyes are on me, as are Michie’s. With a smile, I head over and introduce myself to the mark, sharing tonight’s specialty cocktail.
A suave aura emits from Mr. Big Money—from the silver glint of his eyes to his dapper goatee. “Whiskey. Bestye have, hen, dinna concern me with the price.”
Shocked, I inhale deeply. “My husband calls me hen.”
“Seems like a smart lad. Is he—”
“Scottish, yes.” I grin, adding, “He’s from a wee, beautiful island up north.”
While I explain where, Mr. Big Money rubs his jaw. He mentions a community, which reminds me of one of our vacations.
“Hmmm, is that an hour east from Glasgow?” I ask, capable of gauging a location relative to the popular city.
“Aye. Ye visited us then?”
“Well, sort of passed through. We visit my husband’s clan once or twice a year since we were married. Each time, we’ll drive in a different direction, see the sights. I’ll grab your drink.”
I get behind the bar, and Michie comes close. “That’s big money.”
“I have eyes,” I reply, gesturing to the blue label bottle of whiskey.
“Then you realize it’s smooth sailing from here on out. So, Chevelle, you can give him the same attention and care that you once gave the others in the past.”
I look up at him. Sometimes Michie acts like he’ll die for a dollar, though he has money. The home he lives in is gorgeous. The car he drives, sleek. “Listen, more people are coming in. We’re too busy for the ‘big money’ challenge.”
“No, Quinn and I are busy.” He corners me. “Grab the bottle, sit. Don’t stop pouring, beautiful.”
“Michie.” I sigh.
“What? Your beauty comes naturally, Chevelle. Call this your break.”