He shakes his head, not liking it, but follows my command. A second later, he’s got a bottle of Buffalo Trace in one hand, two short glass tumblers in the other. When I reach for the whiskey, he shoots me a look and walks to the other side of the island, out of reach.
I watch, mystified, as he moves from fridge to cabinet to counter, pulling out all the ingredients for my favorite drink. With the expert efficiency of one of Boston’s best bartenders, he drops a sugar cube into the bottom of each glass, then adds a splash of bitters and a dash of water. There’s the muddled sound of stirring, the clink of ice cubes, the snap of a bottle cap twisting.
Less than a minute later he sets a perfect Old Fashioned in front of me — all that’s missing is a cocktail cherry and an orange slice. (Which just so happen to be the only fruits I consume on a regular basis.)
He leans one hip against the island, watching me carefully.
“You made me an Old Fashioned.” I say, eyes moving from his face to the glass.
He nods and takes a sip. I watch him swallow, fascinated by the simple action of his Adam’s apple bobbing.
“It’s my favorite drink.”
He nods again. “I know.”
He knows?
My mouth opens, closes, opens again. I can’t find any words, so I just grab my glass and take a swig.
Damn, that’s good. There is nothing sexier than a man who knows how to mix a good drink…
Pushing that perilous thought to the far reaches of my brain, I move away from the kitchen and head for the couch. I’m too tired to stand upright any longer. Balancing my drink precariously, I fold my limbs into a tight pretzel and settle on the corner cushion, like I’d do when I was home sick with the flu in elementary school. Nate watches me intently, never moving from his place by the barstools.
“What?” I ask, feeling his eyes on me.
He shakes his head.
“You’re staring.” I take a breath. “It’s creepy.”
It’s not remotely creepy. It’s… intense.
His eyes don’t shift. “Sorry,” he murmurs, sounding like he’s not sorry at all.
“You know, this is going to take forever if you refuse to answer a single one of my questions and only speak in monosyllabic sentences,” I point out. “And then I’ll be here in your lair for a long ass time, being too loud and touching all your things. Which I’m sure is not what you want. In fact, it’s probably the exact opposite of what you want.”
His eyes crinkle. “My lair?”
I gesture at the space around us.
“We’re in Seaport, not Middle Earth.”
I snort. “Well, maybe I’d know that if you’d spoken more than five words since I woke up here.”
“West, I’ve been a bit busy trying to figure out how to save your ass.” His voice is getting exasperated. “What do you want from me?”
Oh, isn’t that the question of the decade…
“I want a conversation. Not this… this… thing we’ve been doing for the past ten years.”
His eyes narrow. “And what would that be?”
“Ignoring each other’s existence except when absolutely mandatory. Hating each other the rest of the time.”
“I haven’t been ignoring you.” His forehead furrows. “And I don’t hate you.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” He strides away from the counter and walks to the middle of the room, arms crossed over his chest. His eyes never leave mine. “Why would you think I hate you?”
“Um… maybe because you haven’t spoken to me in years, with the exception of the last month? And even then, most of the time it’s less speaking than yelling.”
“That’s not true.”
I make an incredulous noise.
He steps closer. “I talked to you at the launch party three years ago on Parker’s boat.”
“You told me I should wear a life preserver if I was going up on deck. One of the big, puffy orange ones. Over a vintage Chanel mini-dress, no less.”
His eyes crinkle up — not in amusement, but something else. I’ve never seen those chocolate eyes look warm before, but they are when he mutters, “I remember that dress.”
What?!