Page 6 of Cherry's Jubilee

Now that, I disagree with. My father doesn’t care about social status and neither do I. In fact, he can’t stand anyone who grew up with money, which is ironic because he made sure his kids wanted for nothing.

I finish my drink. She takes the glass and refills it without me asking.

“Forget about that, Cherry. What do you do for a living besides making drinks on a Saturday evening?”

“I’m an accountant,” she says. “The funny thing is, I applied for a position at Jubilee in their accounting department but wasn’t hired.” I sense some irritation there. “I don’t think the company is all that anyway.”

I almost want to laugh at that. The company definitely is all that and then some. Any position there is coveted.

“Why don’t you tell me all about that tomorrow over dinner? We can curse Jubilee to eternal damnation together.”

She freezes at my question. It’s almost funny. She was about to turn around to put the bottle of whiskey back, but she stops halfway before slowly turning to face me. She tilts her head to the side as if she’s deciding on whether she heard me correctly.

She walks back to me and refills my glass again. Then she smiles wide, showing off her perfect teeth.

“You don’t strike me as a man who enjoys—” She stops as she mulls her words. “The sugar of the brown variety.”

I tilt my head to the side to mirror her. “I enjoy sugar of any variety,” I say. “I love sugar,” I add.

“You love sugar?” she asks, and I nod. “You have it often?” She arches an eyebrow.

“Not as often as I’d like,” I say back.

“You’ve sampled brown before?” she asks, and I let out a hearty laugh.

“Is that a prerequisite for having dinner with you? Do you want a list of all the sugar I’ve sampled?”

She looks down and eyes my hands. I hold both up because I’m certain she’s looking for a wedding ring. “No ring and no tan lines either,” I throw in. When all she does is stare, I say, “You do eat, don’t you?”

“A couple of times a week at least.” She smiles again and visibly relaxes.

“What a coincidence. Me too, and tomorrow happens to be one of those days.”

She leans over the counter and gives me that mischievous look. “I don’t think you know what you’re asking. I’m an expensive date.”

“Do tell.”

“I’m the type of girl who will ask for bacon on my burger. Or a side of shrimp with my steak. And yes, I’ll expect you to pay for it. I don’t go Dutch on dates, Lee. I don’t think that old guy you work for pays you enough.”

My dad would hate being described as old, but I keep that to myself. “What kind of man asks a beautiful woman to dinner and expects her to pay?”

“It’s been known to happen.”

“Well, not with me, it won’t. And I promise, I make enough.”

She eyes me up and down as if she’s trying to decide whether to believe me or not.

“I bet you’re a driver. You have that look about you.”

The closest I’ve ever been to being a driver is whenever I choose to drive myself somewhere.

“Nope. Try again. And when we’re out tomorrow, you’re going to explain to me what about me makes you think I’m a driver.”

She shocks me when she takes both my hands in hers. She turns them over and inspects them.

“You don’t do manual labor. Your hands are too soft.”

“I’m offended,” I say, doing my best to sound hurt.

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