Page 3 of Hot Buttered Kisses

He stands to shake my hand, and it’s not your average handshake; the way he does it, careful and calculating, screams of his power.

"Dee. May I call you Dee?" he asks, smooth as glass.

"Of course." I squeeze back, just to let him know I'm not here to fold under pressure, and let him direct me toward a couch that I’m betting costs more than the balance of my entire stock portfolio.

Jacob sits across from me and launches right in. “Why do you want to leave Midnight Madness?”

Direct hit. I could bullshit about career goals, but I promised myself I’d be honest this time. “Because I’m tired of being an underdog. I’ve revamped and reinvented the menus of three bars and trained more bar staff than I can count, and I’m ready to move up. There isn’t room for advancement at Midnight Madness.”

He leans back in the chair, fingers steepled, eyes on me like he’s the one with all the cards. “So, what’s your approach to managing a bar?”

Every nerve lights up, but I hold steady and let the words pour out. “Not treating customers like morons. Craft without the attitude. Staff who don’t hate their jobs. Cocktails that aren’t just another Pinterest recipe with a clever name.” I pause when I realize my voice is the only one in the room, tumbling on and on, like I can’t stop. “I’m not a robot. Neither are my people. Bar patrons want a genuine experience.”

Jacob’s smile is sharp. “I like your thinking. Why don’t we take a look around?”

Excitement buzzes through me as he shows me the entire operation. We swing through every square inch of the place. No joke, the bar’s backroom is double the size of my apartment. Jacob points out inventory systems so slick I almost weep. There’s a walk-in fridge with LED lighting and fully stocked shelves. It reminds me a lot of Midnight Mischief, and I can’t help but wonder if I’m doing the right thing. I push the doubts aside and follow Jacob around.

He moves with this silent, smooth power, and I try not to stare at his hands every time he gestures to something. The man has CEO energy turned up to eleven. I take notes, literally and mentally, while he quizzes me on everything from siphoning kegs to staff retention. I ace every question, and he knows it. Not a brag. Just a fact.

At one point, he leans in close enough that I get a whiff of his cologne. Sandalwood and something expensive and dark, like a forbidden forest mixed with money, but I don’t even get a kick of adrenaline. Or desire. Nothing. This is fucking great. I can work here without worrying about falling for another unattainable man.

Jacob’s eyes flick over me, quick and calculating. “You seem entirely unflappable, Dee.”

I shrug, playing it cool. “I’ve had drinks thrown at my face, been called every name in the book, and once broke up a fight with a well-placed kick. Not much rattles me.”

His laugh is just a flash, gone as fast as it came. “I believe it. Now, let’s talk cocktails. If I told you Velvet’s crowd is high-end but jaded, what’s the first drink you’d put on my menu?”

Oh, this is almost too easy.

“Something classic, but dangerous,” I say. “Like a dirty Boulevardier, but smoked table-side. Something you smell before you taste. It makes people sit up and whisper, ‘What’s that?’” I finish, confident as hell. “It’s not about being showy for the sake of it. It’s about expectation and drama. People want to be seduced by a drink before they even taste it.”

Jacob’s eyes narrow a bit, like he’s genuinely impressed, or maybe plotting how to sell me on the black market if I don’t work out. With this guy, I feel it could go either way.

He stands, brushing invisible lint off his sleeve. “Show me,” he says, like we’re about to duel at dawn instead of make cocktails at eleven a.m.

Game on, Mr. Amon.

We stride down the mirrored staircase, past a cleaning crew who look like they’d rather be anywhere else. No one asks questions. Jacob leads me behind the bar, his presence so intense the air feels denser. He gestures at the liquor wall. “Pick your poison.”

A little thrill spikes in my chest. This is my jam. I scan the wall, practically drooling over the line-up. I’m talking about four different types of Japanese whiskey, a unicorn bottle of vintage Chartreuse, and mezcal that probably required a blood oath to import. I get lost for a second just picking my ammo.

Jacob stands so close, I swear he’s reading my mind. “Take your time,” he says, but it sounds more like a challenge than a courtesy.

I grab the bourbon, Campari, and vermouth and start prepping. The bar is set up like a dream. Every bottle is right where I’d want it. Fancy-ass atomizers for the smoke show. I’m grinning like a lunatic as I build the cocktail, ice flying, jigger in one hand and bar spoon in the other. This is my happy place.

I invert a chilled, crystal rocks glass over the cherry wood smoke, and the cloud swirls dramatically in the golden light. The effect is electric. I pour my perfect concoction in the smoked glass and set it down in front of Jacob. He just stares at it for a second like I’ve dropped a live grenade on the bar. The guy is so still that I start wondering if he’s ever going to pick up the drink. Then, super slowly, he wraps a big hand around the glass and lifts it to his nose.

Jacob inhales like a pro. His gaze is locked on me the entire time, eyes all sharp and businesslike but also kind of wolfish, which I’m pretty sure is meant to be intimidating.

After years of dealing with Eamon Whelan, I don’t intimidate easily.

He takes a sip. Lets it sit. Rolls it around like a fancy wine snob, then swallows. No reaction at all, but I don’t worry. I know that’s the best goddamn Smoked Boulevardier he’s ever tasted.

Then he sets the glass down and grins. And, oh my God, this man has a smile that could cause any woman’s ovaries to sing. Any woman except me. My ovaries only perform for one man. “Perfect balance. The smoke hooks you right before the finish. And the bitter never overpowers. I haven’t had a drink this show-stopping in years.”

My cheeks almost catch fire. I want to play it cool, but a dumbass grin splits my face.

“Thanks. I love setting expectations high. Keeps people guessing.”