Tequila Rose by Willow Winters (any book recommendations .TXT) 📗

a low hiss slip out as the mix of agony and relief swirl and hit me harder than the liquor has all night.

Mistake number one tonight: these heels.

I’ll definitely be taking an Uber home.

“What’ll it be?” the bartender asks me, and I peek up at him.  I lost a lot of my courage on the way down here. The tipsiness is waning far too quickly. I picked the Blue Room because a friend from class, Michelle, usually hangs out here. She’s nowhere in sight, though.

“My friend gets a drink here … something like Cherry ...” I let my voice trail off and hope he knows what I’m talking about.  The handsome man has to be in his late thirties judging by the faint wrinkles around his brown eyes. His hair, a little longer than I prefer in men, is swept back and the color matches his black tie.  The Blue Room has a fabulous dress code for their employees, in my opinion. It’s all white dresses just above knee length for the women, and crisp white dress shirts rolled up to the elbows for the men.  With the skinny tie he’s wearing, I have to admit it’s a sleek, sexy look that matches the décor in this place. It’s a nod at a speakeasy, I think.

“It’s called Cherry something,” I say and chew my lip, trying to remember the name.

Michelle ordered a round when I got back from my birthday celebration in Beaufort.  “It’s delicious but I don’t remember the name,” I add when he gives me a look like he has no idea what I’m talking about.

Shoot.

“Berry Drop?” a bartender a few feet away chimes in. He’s the same height, but a smaller build than the man standing on the other side of the polished wooden counter in front of me.

“Gotcha,” my bartender says and nods then immediately goes for a cup of ice, making the drink without waiting for me to acknowledge the name.

“It is delicious,” he adds when he finally looks at me, grabbing two liquor bottles, plus a third.

The whole darn thing looks like it’s made of alcohol.  There’s some kind of rule about mixing alcohols, but I’m pretty sure those rules don’t count when it comes to breakups.

I watch him add a scoop of fresh berries into the silver shaker and note how much I love this campus, this bar and the East Coast.

My dad didn’t understand why I wanted to leave South Carolina.  None of my friends got it either. University of Delaware is a party school and I came here with undecided as my degree of choice.

It was either that or art history, which my father forbade.  It wasn’t a serious enough path, according to him. I still haven’t had the balls to tell him that it’s what my degree will be in.  Maybe I’ll get lucky and he’ll be too busy with schmoozing and planning meetings to pay my degree any mind.

The tall cylindrical glass clanks in front of me, beads of condensation already rolling down its cool sides.  “Berry Drop,” the bartender announces proudly and nods at me to have a sip. Resting his clasped hands in front of him, he waits as I take a sip.

The smile that comes to my lips is immediate and apparently contagious, because he smiles too, claps once in victory, then moves to the end of the crowded bar.

I’m all the way at the other end in the corner, where I can see everyone else.  There’s an empty stool next to me, but the rest of the place is buzzing with life.

I keep drinking, sucking down the delicious cocktail as I people watch.  It seems to be mostly groups of men and women at the tables. The floor is packed with bodies, though, couples dancing and laughing.  I’m sure some don’t even know each other; they’re simply here doing what I’m doing: looking for someone to get into trouble with.

Maybe just to flirt, to feel someone against their skin.  Maybe to share a kiss or two. I suck on the straw and air slips in, making that familiar white noise sound.  I have to shake the cup to move some of the ice out of the way, frowning as I realize I’ve already gone through my drink in a matter of minutes ...

It’s not that there wasn’t enough in the glass. It’s that it was simply that easy to drink it down.

“You need another?” a friendly masculine voice, not the professional one of the bartender, asks from my right.  Just hearing that deep baritone stirs up jitters in my stomach. I can feel his presence before I see him.  He’s tall, much taller than I am, which is more than obvious when he sits down on the stool next to me and I have to crane my neck to look up at him.

This place has sleek, minimalistic décor; the seat beneath this man isn’t enough for him.  It’s too simple for a man with obvious rough edges. His shirt clings to his broad shoulders as he leans against the bar, folding his arms so the muscles in his forearms coil all the way up to his biceps.

His charming smile only adds to the draw he has.  The air bends around him, and every woman in this place is eyeing him up.  If Man Candy Mondays had a mascot, this man would be it.

It takes him smirking at me, letting out a gruff sound of humor from between his perfectly white teeth, for me to realize I haven’t answered him.

I feel dizzy, warm and fuzzy.  It’s the drink, I tell myself.  Slipping the straw back into my mouth and finishing off the last tiny bit, I add, I’m a bad liar.

“Yes please, if you’re offering,” I say as seductively as I can and my legs sway a little from side to side, my nerves betraying me as the words slip out.  In my