Page 67 of Timelessly Ours
Within a few minutes, I toss the kitchen rag over my shoulder and stare at six empty rocks glasses in front of me, a grin spreading as I plan out each one.
Flipping the bottle, I pour a finger of Jonnie Walker into three glasses and Jack Daniels into the other. I dip to check for even amounts. Satisfied, I start chopping lemons and oranges. I stir up homemade simple syrup since it’s better than store-bought—and shake ingredients together, then pour out my first mix.
I don’t need to taste it to know it’s perfect and move on to the next glass.
I swipe my forehead and focus on the last cocktail, which I had to revise due to a lack of cocktail cherries in the fridge. Like anyone really has those sitting around. There is a better chance of him having some bitters in the house.
I twist back to the pantry and gasp, finding a figure standing at the entry of the kitchen.
Royce stands cross-legged and folded arms watching me.He shifts but doesn’t say anything. He looks something between horrified and intrigued as his eyes dip from mine to the row of cocktails on the counter before me.
“This isn't what it looks like,” I assure, humor and nerves in my voice.
“It looks like you’re having trouble finding whatyou need.” He steps in further, stopping across the counter from me and studying my creations.
I twist my fingers. “Um...you didn’t have cherries so I couldn’t make a Manhattan but if I had bitters, I could make this into an—”
Before I finish, he’s moving to a low cabinet by the wine cooler. “Lemon or cherry?” he asks casually.
“Lemon.”
He pulls out both and hands me the one with the yellow label.
I mumble a thank you, sparing him a glance, and finish off a perfect Old Fashioned, giving it a stir. With a sigh, I take a step back from the counter.
“Done.”
Tearing his gaze off me, he scans the spread, then moves to his liquor cabinet, switching on the light behind the glass enclosure.
I hold my breath waiting for his reaction. Any reaction.
Is he assuming the worst? Or… satisfied with my selections for him.
Nothing. He's giving me nothing.
Should I start talking? Would explaining that I felt the need to keep busy to avoid an anxiety attack help my case?
“I was planning on cleaning this all up before—”
“Which one should I try first?” He strides back to stand across the counter from me.
“You’re not disappointed?”
He lets out a soft chuckle. “I haven’t tried them yet.”
A breath puffs out of me. “Right. Okay.” I move to my left and swipe my hand over the first set. “These three are a scotch mix. These are whiskey. All of which I think…you’d like.”
His eyes flick back to mine. “You made these for me?”
“Well, they’re certainly not for me. I was more of a vodka girl.”
He nods and reaches for one. I hold up a hand. “Start with this one. It’s less fragrant and won’t overpower your tastebuds.”
He grins. “Alright.”
By the time he finishes the fourth, he steps around the counter. I’m still so on edge from being caught practicing the thing that calms me, that I worry he’ll feel how much I’m still shaking.
But he doesn’t seem to notice. Instead, he nudges my shoulder playfully. “You trying to get me drunk, Ms. Kane?”
