Jag then opened the door to his liquor cabinet.
Archie peered in and busted out laughing again.
And again, Jag grinned at her while she did it.
“Are you a mixologist?” she asked.
“No, I just never know what mood I’m gonna be in.”
She surveyed the contents of the very stocked cabinet then told it, “I’m an amateur, but I dabble in the mixological arts.” She looked up at him. “Prepared to be adventurous?”
“Always.”
She gave him a look that was both hot and approving before her eyes skidded through the cut potatoes he had on the baking sheets and came back to him.
“I’m on drinks,” she declared.
“Gotcha,” he replied, taking her hint, moving to the baking sheets and grabbing the olive oil. “You hungry? Or you wanna wait?” he asked to be certain.
“Hungry,” she answered.
“Cool, dinner in around twenty-five,” he muttered, and got to it with the olive oil, salt and pepper on the oven fries.
He was sliding them in when she was sliding a glass next to the stove.
“I went with a pear base,” she shared.
“Pointing out the obvious, since I had a can of juice, I dig pear,” he told her and picked up his drink.
She held hers out.
He grinned at her and clinked.
He tasted it.
She’d gone with spiced rum, some lime, a ginger ale float.
“Nice,” he said.
Her black eyes twinkled…
