“Told ya.”
“Your own recipe?”
“Yeah. How did you know?”
“It’s not on the menu.” I quirk my eyebrow at the blackboard full of funky drink names in colorful chalks behind him. “Or the specials.”
A dimple appears on his right cheek. I have a weakness for dimples.
“How long have you been working here?”
“About seven months. Since I turned twenty-one.” He dries some wine glasses, the muscles in his forearms flexing as he runs the clean white rag over the crystal surfaces. “I haven’t seen you in here before,” he says, sounding a bit too casual.
What—and how much—should I say? Getting busted now would suck. My ID says I live in Orange County, but I doubt he noticed. Most bartenders only check the birthday. “I don’t live around here.”
“Not attending UCLA?”
I shake my head. “I was studying in…Europe.”
“Your friends, too?”
That makes me blink. “Oh. You mean…Vanessa and Marcella. No. They didn’t. We…”
He probably heard us speaking German, and thankfully didn’t understand it. Lots of people in SoCal speak at least some Spanish, but not German.
“We weren’t speaking in English because, you know”—I make a circle with my index finger—“secrets.”
“You aren’t a mafia princess or anything, are you?”
I snort, biting back a grin at the teasing smile he adds at the end. He’s probing, and I hate men who probe, but somehow with him it’s okay. As a matter of fact, I want him to get to know me—just me—and like what he discovers. “No. Definitely not. Besides, we were speaking German. Have you ever heard of a German mafia?”
“No. But that doesn’t mean they don’t exist.”
I finish the mojito. “Well, lucky for you, I’m not a mafia princess with big, burly men ready to break your legs for talking to me.”
He laughs.
I tap the rim of my now empty glass. “Is this your favorite?”
“Nope. I prefer vodka.”
“Really?”
He shrugs. “Strong. Neat. No smell. What’s not to like?”
I’ve had a lot of liquor before, but never vodka. “Give me a shot.”
A small frown on his handsome face, he studies me. I feel his gaze like a caress, and I suck in a breath.
Get a grip. You’re leaving the States in less than forty-eight hours.
Still… A girl can have fun with a sexy stranger, right?
Resting my chin in my hand, I grin at him. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to pass out and make you carry me home. I have the infamous Pry—um, a prime metabolism.”
Mr. Absurd’s going to cut me off. I?
?ve had seven drinks. And he doesn’t know about the notorious Pryce metabolism, which allows the people in my family to drink alcohol almost like water.