Page 158 of Collide
I nod just as the bartender turns. “What can I get started for you guys?”
“Two old fashioneds with Michter’s bourbon. And two shots of tequila.”
Broderick exhales through his nose, huffing. “Damn. Want to add a side of regret with that?”
“You’ll drink it and be grateful.” I smile.
He laughs, rich and unfiltered.
The bartender gets to work.
“Hand it over,” I say, palm out.
“What?”
“Your phone. I caught you emailing. We’re here to have fun, not run Goodman Enterprises. So hand. It. Over.”
He grins, slow and wicked. “Make me.”
Oh.
I press him back against the bar’s edge where the crowd thins, and I dig into his pocket like I own it. He doesn’t fight back.
“What the fuck—El!” he yelps, half-laughing, half-squirming. His eyes widen—surprise and hunger flashing.
“No more work tonight. Or else.” I shove the phone into my purse.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Ew. None of that,” I mutter, scrunching my nose.
“Hey, we’re American. We have manners, especially around ladies. Though that”—he nods at my purse—“was not exactly ladylike.”
He chuckles. The bartender slides the drinks across the counter.
I slap down cash before Broderick can reach for his wallet and nudge him toward the quieter end of the bar.
“Shots first. Unless you’re chicken?”
He raises a brow. “Alright.”
We lick, clink, and throw the tequila back in unison.
The burn hits hard, coarse and clean.
I suck the lime and drop it in the empty glass.
“Fuck, tequila is cruel,” he coughs.
I giggle, the buzz hitting. “Weak.”
He coughs again, and I can’t help but laugh. For someone his size to be taken down by a little tequila—it’s almost comical.
I pat him on the back. “Need me to call an ambulance, big guy?”
He chuckles, and so do I.
“Hey, you’ve got some—” he says, brushing his thumb along my lip. His hand lingers, cupping my jaw. “Salt.”
