Page 64 of Here & There

“When did he move in with you?” she asks.

“Last summer.”

“Was he in the city before?”

“Yes, but not Vancouver. He lived with his grandmother out east.”

“You can tell me to stop.”

I meet her eyes. “Stop what?”

“Asking personal questions.”

I work my jaw. “I don’t mind.” I would, if it was anyone else.

“Where’s his mom?”

For that, I need assistance.

“Do you like whiskey?” I ask.

“Depends what kind.”

I hold up the bottle I set down beside my chair. It’s a Laphroaig, ten-year-old single malt.

Her eyes go wide. “That’s one of my favorites.” Then her face takes on a knowing look. “That’s the bartender trick again, isn’t it?”

The tumblers clink together as I pick them up. “A lucky guess.”

She shakes her head. “Tell me how you do it.”

I pour us a couple fingers each. “It’s a popular whiskey for people who know a little. Your clients probably got you one of these for a gift when you destroyed their humble expectations of what you could do for their business.”

Shelby’s jaw falls open. My eye drops to her lower lip, find a glimpse of pink tongue.

“Take a sip, Shelby,” I say, my voice lower than it should be.

I take my own advice and inhale half the glass, relishing its smoky burn as it pours down my throat.

I don’t drink scotch often. It tends to loosen my lips. That’s why I normally only drink it down here by myself.

She takes a sip of her whiskey, and I try not to stare sideways. But I can’t help it. My fingers curl hard around my glass as shebrings her drink to her lips, that tip of her tongue reaching out to catch the golden liquid as she tilts her head back.

I’m jealous of whiskey. That’s a first.

She lets out a slight moan as she sets the glass down, closing her eyes and brushing her tongue against her top lip.

The surge of heat I feel is so strong I have to set my glass down and tuck my hands under my arms to stop myself from doing something stupid. Like reaching out and lacing her fingers through mine.

Shelby curls up against her chair, tucking her blanket snug around her as she faces me. When she looks up at me, I feel like a wire pulled taut. The blanket’s so snug against her curves I feel envious of it. Her eyes are glassy in the firelight, her lashes dropping and lifting from her flushed cheeks. Her lips are still dewy from the sip of whiskey, and I want badly to taste them. So badly the urge is almost overwhelming.

“Okay,” she says, her voice soft. “Now tell me.”

My stomach jolts. “Tell you what?”

“About your son.”

My heart squeezes painfully, but at least that cools the heat in me. “What do you want to know?”

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