Page 59 of Knots About You
‘You’re a flirt, Owen Harris.’
‘Only with you.’
I laid out the bottles like a lineup: our five-year-old for mixing, the sherry cask for depth, a ginger syrup I’d made last Christmas, lemon, bitters, honey, a crate of soda, and a jar of maraschino cherries Isla had banned from the kitchen due to the preservatives.
‘We’ll start classic,’ I said, reaching for the shaker. ‘Or at least, the internet told me it’s a classic. Old Fashioned. Whisky Sour. Highball glass. You tell me what you think.’
‘I reserve the right to request drinkable glitter,’ she said.
‘Denied. Dad would be appalled.’
I made the first round while she monitored, chin on her knuckles and elbows on the edge of the next barrel over. Those pretty blue eyes were watching me as I measured and stirred. Her stare had me flustered, not wanting to mess up and disappoint her.
‘Taste,’ I said, holding the glass to her lips, watching the thick white foam stick to her sweet smile.
She took the daintiest sip known to man. I waited on tenterhooks, then her eyes brightened. ‘It’s perfect. Best I’ve tasted. You’d put any cocktail bar to shame.’
‘Really? You’re not just buttering me up to seduce me?’
‘Well, I wasn’t… but I could be tempted.’
‘Brat.’
‘Always,’ Claire grinned.
She twisted her hair around a finger and licked the foam from her lips. I reached for the next glass before I lost control and abandoned the cocktails altogether. She was there to help, not to be kissed senseless in a warehouse. I added honey to the ginger syrup and shook it with ice until the shaker grew frosty. I popped a soda can and added it to the syrup mixture in a tall glass.
‘Festival-friendly. One hand for dancing, one for holding on to me when the ceilidh gets feral.’
‘I don’t know how to ceilidh,’ she said, but her gaze had dropped to my mouth.
‘I’ll teach you, and in a village, you basically just need to hold on and let everyone throw you around. Now taste.’
She did. ‘Very refreshing. It’s got a real zing with the ginger. I could drink ten and end up eloping with the bartender.’
‘Not on my watch. Unless I’m the bartender…’
‘You want to elope with me?’ There was a joking lilt to her voice, but the idea still made my insides light up.
‘I could be convinced.’
‘Keep the cocktails coming then, Mr Harris.’
We worked through three more ideas. She judged each one with a seriousness it didn’t need, but that made me smile. When she suggested some crushed thyme in one cocktail, it made it a multitude of times better.
‘You’re good at this,’ I said.
‘Bossing you about?’
‘Making thingsbetter.’
Something in her went tender at that, like I’d soothed a part of her that was raw.
‘Right.’ I cleared my throat. ‘Final contenders. Sour, highball, and…’
‘Something smoky,’ she said, nudging the sherry-cask bottle with one finger. ‘You smell all woody and manly like this after work. It’s…’
She paused, hunting for the right word. ‘Do you mind if I…’
