The Allure of Dean Harper (The Allure #2)(6)

Suit Guy’s features weren’t pretty, they were striking. Rough around the edges with a permanent scowl and punch-you-in-the-gut brown eyes. His dirty blond hair was unruly and probable evidence of a bad habit of running his hands through it when he was stressed.

I opened my mouth to ask him his drink order, but another customer spoke up first.

“What was that drink you made me earlier?” the young girl beside him asked, swaying her empty cocktail glass back and forth in front of her like a fast-paced metronome. I’d made her a drink hours ago; I had a good memory, but not that good.

“Describe it,” I said, leaning forward so I could hear her over the sound of the crowd. The effort brought me closer to Suit Man and it annoyed me that I noticed his cologne. Or maybe I’m annoyed that I liked it.

“You recommended it,” the girl slurred. “It was like a pineapple made love to a boozy banana.”

I ran through the drinks I’d made earlier in the night that had pineapple in them. There’d only been a few, and the cocktail glass she was waving around helped me narrow it down.

“It’s called a Juliet,” I told the customer, already reaching for a new cocktail glass. “It has gold tequila, banana-flavored liqueur, pineapple juice, and grenadine.”

Her eyes widened. “Yes! More please!”

I smiled and turned to the bar shelves to reach for the gold tequila. Suit Man spoke up behind me and my back stiffened.

“I don’t see that drink on the menu…”

His voice was sexy, but his tone sounded seriously annoyed.

I glanced over my shoulder at him. “No. It’s just something I like to make.”

His dark brow arched as he assessed my answer. “The city’s top mixologist spent weeks crafting this drink list.”

Top mixologist? I had flipped through the leather-bound list earlier, completely uninspired by the generic drinks. I’d assumed it was thrown together by some busboy that had Googled “how to make hipster cocktails”.

I set the gold tequila down on my station and shrugged. “I like to play by own rules.”

Brian came up behind me, nearly shoving me out of the way to reach Suit Man.

“Sir, I didn’t see you there. Can I get you anything? The usual?”

I smirked. The guy must be one hell of a tipper to elicit that sort of ass-kissing from Brian.

“No. I’d actually like her to make me a drink,” he said with a dark tone.

I was looking down, measuring out a shot of tequila, or he would have seen my eyes narrow. What is his angle?

“Lily,” Brian whispered under his breath, trying to get my attention.

I glanced over at him from beneath my lashes. His eyes widened as he inclined his head toward the man. The message was clear: make his drink. Now.

Unfortunately, I’d never been very good at taking orders.

I plastered on a fake smile and met Suit Man’s annoyed stare.

“I’ll be happy to take your order, right after I finish up with these fine folks who were here before you.” My tone was clipped and cool, but no one could accuse me of being outright rude. It was the voice adopted by anyone who’d ever had to work a shift in a service job.

Suit Man sat and watched me mix three more drinks. I was still faster than Brian, but compared to earlier, I was taking my sweet time. His dark eyes stayed pinned on me as anger palpably boiled off of him. I selected my ingredients with care and measured them out like I was creating a work of art.

I caught fragments of his shattering composure as I twisted and turned behind the bar: his clenched, clean-shaven jaw; the gap in the top of his shirt where his tensed, tan chest peeked through; his knuckles, motionless but growing whiter as he gripped the edge of the bar.

By this time, the crowd around the courtyard had diminished, which left Brian with no other orders to busy himself with.

“Sir, are you sure I can’t get you anything?” Brian asked, his voice a tad more shrill than it’d been only minutes before. “Seriously, Lily—”

Suit Man shook his head, leaned forward, and propped his elbows on the bar.

“Brian, go clean up the other end of the bar,” he ordered.

I met his stare and took off the friendly mask I usually wore for customers. Our eyes locked with unspoken fury. I’d been on my feet all night, I was exhausted, and now I had to deal with a customer from hell. He had no clue who he was dealing with.

“Make me a Collins,” he said through seductive lips. They were the sort of lips made for giving orders and delivering on promises.

He offered no please. No thank you.

I held his stare as I reached for a highball glass. I took pride in every drink I made, but I knew his drink would be irre-f*ckin-proachable. I expertly poured two ounces of dry gin by sight, and then added a touch more. One teaspoon of superfine sugar and half an ounce of lemon juice went into the glass next. I stirred it all together and spritzed it with a touch of club soda. He took the glass out of my hand before I could slide it across the bar. I watched him bring it to his lips, holding back every snarky remark that came to mind.

“Too heavy on the sugar,” he declared, dropping the glass back onto the bar. “Make it again.”

He’d hardly taken a sip.

I had to bite down on my tongue until I nearly drew blood. The customer is always right. Even if the customer is full of shit, he’s always right.