A Book of Spirits and Thieves (Spirits and Thieves #1)(61)

“Fine,” she relented. “One totally illicit drink, and then I have to get home.”

He nodded. “Modestly daring. I approve. What’s your name, anyway?”

“Crystal. Crystal Hatcher. Everyone calls me Crys.”

He offered her his arm. “Allow me to lead you into temptation, Crys Hatcher.”



The bar was small and exclusive. Everyone there was well dressed and well coiffed. Crys twisted a finger through a long pale lock of her hair and tried not to regret the faded jeans and novelty T-shirt she had on under her coat.

She’d never cared much about fashion. Why should she start tonight?

They got a booth in the corner and the waitress came over. Farrell ordered a double vodka on the rocks for himself.

Crys eyed him. “That’s a serious drink.”

“I’m a very serious guy.” The amused expression on his face led her to believe he was anything but. “What would you like?”

“I have absolutely no idea.”

“Salty? Sweet? A shot? Wine?” Farrell studied her pensively as she kept him waiting for an answer. “I’m thinking we’ll go with a whiskey sour.”

“All right,” the waitress said, throwing an appraising glance at Crys but not asking for any ID. “I’ll be right back.”

Crys shrugged out of her jacket.

“Cute,” Farrell said, his gaze now on her chest before his eyes snapped to hers. He smirked. “I mean your T-shirt, of course.”

“Thanks.” She looked down at herself to remember which one she was wearing.

It was a dinosaur that’d awkwardly tipped over onto its nose, with the caption T. REX HATES PUSH-UPS.

Classy.

A minute later, the waitress returned with their drinks.

“A toast,” Farrell said, raising his glass. “To Crys, a kick-ass girl who’s nobody’s victim.”

“I’ll enthusiastically drink to that.” She clinked glasses with him and took a sip of her cocktail, not sure what to expect. It was sour, but still sweet, kind of like lemonade with a kick of liquor that heated her throat as she swallowed. “I like it. I think.”

“I’m an expert at matching the right drink to the right person. It’s one of my gifts.”

She wondered what his other gifts were if he considered that one of them. “You said you’re nineteen, which means you’re only recently legal. Yet you’re already an expert?”

“I took a crash course in debauchery.” He swirled his drink, his pleasant expression fading just a little. “That was a poor choice of words. I have a driver now, only a phone call away, because I can’t drive myself at the moment. Made the mistake of doing a little too much of this”—he indicated the drink—“and then getting behind the wheel. Luckily, I’m the only one who ever got hurt.”

That was quite a confession for him to make to a near stranger, but she appreciated the honesty. “Everyone makes mistakes. As long as you learn from them, I guess.”

“My mistakes have to be pretty big for me to learn from them, but I do eventually. So, where do you go to school, if it’s not at the university?”

She took another sip of her drink. “Sunderland High.”

“I’m assuming senior year?”

She nodded.

“Planning for college? Is that why you were at the university yesterday?”

“No, I—I mean, I like to keep my options open. I’d rather travel for a while. See the world. Figure out my future before it’s figured out for me.”

“Good plan. Let me guess, you’re an aspiring photographer.”

“I am. An aspiring photographer, now without a camera.”

Farrell appeared to consider this. “You can always use the camera on your phone.”

“It’s not even remotely the same. That camera was retro, but it took professional-level shots.” She looked down at the ice cubes in her drink, trying to put the loss out of her head. “What do you want to do with the rest of your life?”

“No idea. But I’ve been considering a few options lately.” He leaned forward. “I have to know . . . what perfume are you wearing?”

“Perfume?” She shook her head. “I’m not wearing any perfume.”

“No way. I smell strawberries—like, a field of them, warm under the summer sun.”

“I use a strawberry-scented soap.”

“That must be it. Just soap. Huh. What do you know?” His lips quirked up as he downed the rest of his drink in one swallow. “Why don’t you tell me about your family? Do you get along with them?”

She tried not to laugh. “I feel like I’m being interrogated.”

“Sorry, I like to talk. Ask questions. Get to know people.”

“All right.” Another sip of her whiskey sour and she found that it was almost gone. “Well, I have a younger sister named Becca, and we live with our mother above the Speckled Muse Bookshop.”

“That sounds like fun.”

“Sometimes. Are you a reader?”

“Do graphic novels count?”

“Sure.”

“Then yes. I’m practically a bookworm.”

She watched him, feeling more comfortable in his presence the longer they sat there. “How about you? Do you have any siblings? No, wait. I already know you from that photo spread. You have a younger brother and an older brother.”