Page 6 of The Billionaire's Claim: Possession
Marcella pouts.
“Better hurry. Justin might get tired of waiting,” I say.
“Fine.” Marcella spins around and leaves with Vanessa.
Finally. I smile inwardly. Now I can observe the bartender without having to split my attention. As much as I love my cousin and friend, I want to take the time to watch Mr. Absurd.
He moves with ease behind the counter, serving beers and making cocktails. I love competence in guys. It’s sexy. And in Mr. Absurd, it’s even more so.
Then there’s his voice. It isn’t even trying to be seductive—I know when a guy is trying. His voice doesn’t change from one moment to next, depending on who he’s talking to. It’s just naturally deep, resonant and calm.
And he gives the evil eye to some drunken guys heading my way, for which I’m grateful. Intoxicated male egos are the worst.
I ask for another martini.
“That all you’re drinking?” Mr. Absurd asks.
“It’s classic and doesn’t disappoint.” I cock my head. “Why? You have something better?”
“How about an apple mojito?”
“Apple?” I consider, a slight smile on my lips. I like the way he grins at me as he tosses out the suggestion. “Don’t think I’ve ever had one.”
“It’s not really a classic…but still good. If you don’t like it, you don’t have to pay.”
My smile widens. He knows how to seal a deal. “Okay.”
He makes the mojito and places it in front of me. I take a sip. It’s as great as the mojitos my cousin Mark made, but the crisp flavor of apple really enhances it. “It’s excellent.”
“Told ya.”
“Your own recipe?”
“Yeah. How did you know?”
“It’s not on the menu.” I quirk my eyebrow at the blackboard full of funky drink names in colorful chalks behind him. “Or the specials.”
A dimple appears on his right cheek. I have a weakness for dimples.
“How long have you been working here?”
“About seven months. Since I turned twenty-one.” He dries some wine glasses, the muscles in his forearms flexing as he runs the clean white rag over the crystal surfaces. “I haven’t seen you in here before,” he says, sounding a bit too casual.
What—and how much—should I say? Getting busted now would suck. My ID says I live in Orange County, but I doubt he noticed. Most bartenders only check the birthday. “I don’t live around here.”
“Not attending UCLA?”
I shake my head. “I was studying in…Europe.”
“Your friends, too?”
That makes me blink. “Oh. You mean…Vanessa and Marcella. No. They didn’t. We…”
He probably heard us speaking German, and thankfully didn’t understand it. Lots of people in SoCal speak at least some Spanish, but not German.
“We weren’t speaking in English because, you know”—I make a circle with my index finger—“secrets.”
“You aren’t a mafia princess or anything, are you?”
