Page 18 of Savage Vows

“We could have skipped a meal with as many calories as the beverage has.”

“Consider it dessert. Besides, we’ll need calories to stay warm.” I stir in milk and add a generous amount of the cream.

I use a small whisk to stir as the mixture starts to bubble.

Glancing over my shoulder, I ask, “Where do you keep the alcohol?”

His brow arches, amusement flickering in his sharp gaze. “What kind of alcohol?”

“The good kind.” I grin. “Something rich. Whiskey, maybe. And something citrusy.”

Without a word, he straightens and gestures for me to follow. After turning the burner to the lowest setting, I trail behind him.

We enter what appears to be a sitting room and stop in front of a cabinet crafted from wood.

He opens one of the beveled glass doors, revealing rows of bottles, all perfectly arranged.

I zero in on a bottle of Grand Marnier. And then I spy the whiskey and grab a bottle. No doubt they’re all wonderful. “This will do.”

“The Bonds?” he asks.

“Something wrong with it?”

“The bottle probably cost more than a thousand dollars, and you’re going to put it in hot chocolate? Presumably boil away the alcohol?”

“It’ll be fine,” I promise.

When we’re back in the kitchen, I ask him to grab a couple of mugs while I open the bottle. The heady scent of aged whiskey fills the air. “This is amazing,” I approve.

“I’ll agree with that. I generally sip it.”

I shrug. “You still can.” He watches as I pour a generous splash of the Bonds into the saucepan, and he seems to wince when the golden liquid swirls into the molten chocolate.

Using a spoon, I take a quick sip. “Heavenly.” I sigh.

Almost satisfied, I add some Grand Marnier. Moments later, the scent of chocolate, smoky whiskey, and citrus fills the air. “This is what I’m talking about.”

After whisking it to perfection, I pour it into our mugs.

Steam rises, and I top the beverages with whipped cream and some shaved chocolate.

“This is probably illegal in some places.”

I grin. “If you don’t like it, that just means there’s more for me.”

“I’ll take these outside, if you want to grab shoes.”

Until now he hasn’t said a thing about the way I’m dressed, but he’s right that my feet will freeze unless I follow his suggestion.

Anxious to enjoy my drink, I hurry upstairs.

The security guard acknowledges me, but he doesn’t say anything.

I pull on socks and carry the flip-flops down the stairs. Before opening one of the French doors, I do my best to stuff my feet into the ridiculous substitute for shoes.

Since it’s about impossible, I end up waddling out into the crisp winter air, looking like a penguin.

The courtyard is magical, with ivy crawling up the brick walls and fairy lights twinkling in trellises, casting an ethereal golden glow over the cobblestone path. A firepit blazes, and two chairs are arranged around a small table.

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