Page 57 of King of Clubs

“If you don’t have a plan shit gets chaotic, and I don’t function well with chaos. I like when things are streamlined because then I can enjoy whatever it is I’m doing.”

Christ, he defied categorisation.

Sexy, organised, logical.

He was the poster-boy for perfect partners, and I was the lucky soul who got to be here. I loved spending time with him, looked forward to any spare second where I could talk to or be with him, but deep in the recesses of my gut, there was a lingering anxiety that something bad was going to happen. Today would be the day I would annoy him, and he would insult me, or not speak to me for days on end. The silence sometimes worse than the vitriol.

But Sebastian had given me no reason to believe any of these things were hidden beneath the surface and I was trusting my gut that while it felt too good to be true, it wasn’t.

We fell into a steady rhythm of preparing everything we would need to make the cocktails, conversation effortless as he shared details of how he had changed Nexus since taking ownership and I reciprocated with anecdotes from work.

He taught me how to pull the perfect beer, far harder than I would have thought, and the quickest way to pour a row of shots. He showed me the way they created the clearest ice and how to press their own logo into each sphere using a copper tool. I was mesmerised.

He didn’t raise his voice when I knocked an entire shot glass onto the bench or when half of the beer I poured dripped over the edges and down the drain. Instead, he laughed, joking with me when nothing I made looked or tasted as it should.

At some point he turned the speakers on and there was mood music which I enjoyed singing along with at every opportunity.

“Why is passion fruit your signature cocktail this month?” I asked after he told me they changed the specialised drink every four weeks focusing on local produce and flavour profiles.

“It’s actually been top of the board for a lot longer than one month,” he shrugged. “I’d like to say it’s because passion is the fruit of life.”

I did my best not to peer over at him, concentrating entirely on the task at hand which now involved slicing passion fruit into rings. Harder than it sounded – let me assure you.

“Passion is the fruit of life,” I repeated. “I like that,” I added, licking the juice from my fingers.

He paused his own task, and I felt him watching me, his gaze glued to my mouth, and I knew the second before he leaned towards me things were about to get delicious in an entirely different way.

The entire spectrum of human emotions crossed his face before he pressed his lips to mine. I still held half a passion fruit in one hand, the other in no state to grab him by the shirt and maximise his kiss. Instead, I tilted my face to allow him better access to my mouth and did my best to suppress a shiver when he pulled away. Not only could he kiss like a fucking champion, but he was also, most definitely, the more competent bartender out of the two of us with his station immaculate, no juice to be seen dripping down to his elbow like some of us.

“I like you,” he said quietly before gazing at me, his crooked grin softening his face, “if that wasn’t obvious.”

His eyes were the colour of coffee and if I wasn’t as sticky as an unattended child with a lollipop, I may have thrown myself at him right then.

My response felt important, like we were on the verge of something amazing and it was time to throw caution to the wind.

Self-preservation be damned, my heart was good. In fact, it was more than good and that was partially due to him.

“I like you, too, Seb. More than I like a post-it-note or caramel syrup,” I replied matter-of-factly.

“That is oddly specific,” he chuckled.

“Says the man who has his items arranged by height, weight, size and any other form of measurement,” I retorted cheekily and his resulting laugh made my chest warm. I did that – and I wanted to do it again and again.

He taught me how to create theImpassioned– the name of the monthly cocktail – while I shared my thirst for organisation, explaining why my earlier comparison was in fact a compliment of mammoth proportions. We moved around each other, me more out of the way while he demonstrated shaking, mixing and stirring – all of which required a secondary demonstration with the way his veiny forearms tightened from the movement.

I cleared my throat, taking a step back when he came especially close. I did not need a reminder of his physicality when we were in a confined space with unlimited alcohol. It was a recipe for a sexy disaster, and it wasn’t even eleven AM.

When we had each made our own version of the purple cocktail from the very first night at Nexus, Seb cleaned the space, and we swapped glasses.

Tasting his, I gasped at the absolute deliciousness.

“I could live on these. They’re a masterpiece and even better when you make them,” I winked, staring as he lifted the drink I made and took a sip. I watched him intently, excited to see what he thought.

“It’s good,” he said grinning.

Crossing my arms, I pinched my lips into a flat line. He could cook like a Michelin Star chef and looked drool worthy while doing so, but he couldn’t lie for shit. Taking a sip of the one I made I slammed my palm across my mouth trying not to spit it back out. I could have had fourteen hands across my face, and I wouldn’t have been able to prevent the snort which snuck out at the absolute bullshit taste of my first attempt at the cocktail. There was nothing Impassioned over here. It tasted like arse.

“Say it again, but with conviction this time,” I giggled, and his grin only got bigger. He reached for the cocktail he created, having a sip to wash away the taste of mine.

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