Back in a Spell (The Witches of Thistle Grove, #3)(12)
The lowkeyloki version of BDE, if you will.
By the time he made it back with the drinks, I’d snuck his glass of water and held it pressed against both cheeks, for long enough that they were probably at least inching back toward normal. He slid my drink in front of me with a wink, and wonder of wonders, I found it sexy, even though I’d once given Jessa an entire unsolicited TED Talk on why I believed being winked at repulsed most women on a cellular level.
“The pour was, indeed, heavy as hell,” he said solemnly. “I made very sure to supervise.”
I laughed, curling my hand around the sweating glass. “This one’s to you, then,” I said, lifting it up. “For still having my back on drink ordering, even though I managed to swear-shame you pretty much first thing.”
“Occupational hazard,” he said, grinning as he clinked his beer against my glass. “Can’t stand to see someone overpay for their alcohol—even if that someone is policing what’s apparently my primary mode of expression. That’s actually why I like to come here, besides the good vibes and excellent company. Makes for a nice break from more complicated beverages.”
“So, you’re a bartender, too?” I asked, taking a welcome swallow of the gin and tonic, thankfully every bit as strong as promised. “And here I was, wondering whether worker’s comp covered risking life and limb while hanging upside down.”
“Believe it or not, I do not get paid fat stacks to fuck around with silks,” he said with a soft chuckle. “Or even hired, in any conventional sense. More like, I audition for the privilege of getting to perform a hobby. And yeah, I do bartend. Have you been to the Shamrock Cauldron, over on Myrtle? My family owns it; I actually took over running it from my dad, just a few years back.”
The name rang a faint warning bell in the backmost belfries of my brain, even though I could have sworn that I’d never been anywhere with a name like that. Stranger still, there was an amorphous but distinctly negative association attached to it.
I let it go, unable to pinpoint it any further. “I work with my family, too. In-house counsel for all our business concerns.”
“Ah, so you’re a lawyer,” he replied, feigning a shudder, a reaction that annoyed me to no end no matter how many times I encountered it. “Can’t say you all make up one of my favorite groups of humans. Present company very much excluded, of course.”
“Well, everyone’s entitled to their opinion,” I said, a little huffily, the butterfly swarm in my belly stilling in their fluttering. “And hating on lawyers never seems to go out of style—until, you know, you end up needing one! But I happen to love my job.”
“To each their own,” he said with a neat shoulder flick of a shrug, lifting his beer for a swig. “Didn’t mean to rag on you. I’ve just had enough unsavory dealings with ’em to leave a bad taste in my mouth, is all. Shouldn’t have tarred you with the same brush.”
“Right,” I said, crossing my arms over my chest. “Well, in return, I’ll try my very best not to hold every shitty drink I’ve ever had against you, too.”
Another husky chuckle, almost like a whispered laugh, and a brief flash of that gorgeous crooked grin. He spread his hands like, mea culpa. “Okay, touché. That was out of line, I’m sorry. Love to see that fighting spirit, though.”
“Oh, trust me on this,” I said, lifting a challenging eyebrow. “Got enough of that for ten.”
“?‘Do not be fool enough to argue with this woman, lest you meet your untimely end,’?” he intoned, jotting down imaginary notes. “Got it now.”
“Oh, I meant to ask,” I said, reminded by the reference to “woman.” “I wanted to make sure I had your pronouns right. What do you prefer?”
“?‘He/him’ is fine, but I also get a lot of ‘they’ when I perform, and honestly, that works great, too. I’ve always been pretty fluid with it. I default to ‘he’ at the bar and at home, since it also feels true and it makes my mom more comfortable about . . .” He gestured vaguely at his eyeliner, the outfit, the entirety of his person. “Thank you for asking, by the way. Not everyone thinks to.”
“Of course. Basic courtesy, right?” I gave him a small smile, glad to be back on less contentious ground. “Must be tricky, navigating that with your family if everyone’s not on the same page.”
For all their many—many—faults, my parents had never had any issues with whom I chose to date—which, of course, wasn’t really the same thing at all.
“My pops is actually awesome about identity shit, and always has been,” Morty said, knuckling away that stubborn hair from his eyes with a graceful whisk of the hand. He wore even more rings than Jessa, a dense collection of chrome and gray and matte black that highlighted the taper of his fingers and the muscled broadness of his hands. “But for my mother, it’s a cultural and generational thing. She’s almost ten years older than he is, and emigrated from Ireland thirty-ish years ago. Her upbringing was on the, shall we say, more uptight end of the Catholic spectrum.”
I made an expressive face, sucking air through my teeth.
“Exactly,” he said, with another breathy chuckle. “She loves me, and she tries her damnedest, but sometimes she just . . . doesn’t quite get it, you know? Still. She does her best, I know that.”