Page 311 of A Taste of Vanilla

“No.”

“Yes. Yes, you do,” Halston says brightly.

I turn slowly toward her.

She smiles.

The smile is evil.

“Emergency bottle. Top shelf. I hid it behind the vermouth.”

I stare at her.

“For emergencies.”

“This is not an emergency.”

Matilda’s voice cuts in. “I inherited a baseball team I don’t want; my father is dead; half the city thinks I’m going to ruin the team; and your bartender just told me this place has secret champagne,” she whispers.

I look back at her.

Her smile softens by a fraction. Not for effect this time. “I’d call that an emergency.”

I hold Matilda’s gaze.

She looks like a woman who has spent years being watched and still somehow has not been seen.

Annoying.

I turn, reach to the top shelf, and retrieve the emergency champagne from behind the vermouth.

“Traitor,” I say to Halston.

“Host,” she corrects.

I peel the foil and pop the cork.

Several players cheer, then immediately stop when Matilda glances toward them.

Good.

At least she’s useful for crowd control.

I grab the least fancy glass I can find. A short tumbler. Thick-bottomed.

And I pour.

Matilda watches my hands.

When it’s full, I slide it across the bar. She looks at it, then at me.

“This is a whiskey glass.”

“This is a bar in Baltimore.”

She smiles, our fingers almost touching when she picks it up.

Matilda raises the glass. “To bad inheritances!”