The crowd roars as the man removes his blindfold. While we move on to the next contestant, the man throws Peyton a wink and sips his mojitos.
Contestant two orders Sex on the Beach. I bite my cheek to restrain the dirty joke on the tip of my tongue.
We both grab high ball glasses and get to work. This go-around Peyton measures with a jigger. And I don’t measure at all. I have made Sex on the Beach thousands of times over the years. Enough to know how much to add without measuring. Enough trial and error to know women suck it down and request another.
Cranberry and orange juice, vodka and peach schnapps, a small scoop of ice and an orange slice and cherry to garnish. Peyton and I add straws and stir at the same time and deposit the drinks in front of the woman. Jake guides her to the glasses and she tastes each one.
Without hesitation, her hand flies up and declares me the winner. Like a child, I stick my tongue out at Peyton and she mocks me in return.
We step over to the last contestant. A lumberjack of a man—inches taller than me, thick beard and more muscle than necessary. His appearance intimidates me. Thankfully, this is all about the drinks.
“White Russian,” he announces after Becky taps his shoulder.
A simple drink. Also a drink that is easy to fuck up if not measured correctly. Of course, the drink with fewer ingredients makes me sweat the most.
While Peyton grabs the vodka and coffee liqueur, I fetch the cream from the fridge. I measure out the vodka while she measures the liqueur. Then we swap. I let her add the cream to hers first, then pour it in mine as she hands over her drink.
Cream swirls like storm clouds as it blends with the alcohol. The man stirs the drink, then lifts it to his lips and tastes. Every person within ten feet of the showdown remains deathly quiet. He sets the glass down and repeats the process with mine. His poker face as hard and unforgiving as stone. Then he tastes them both again.
Dampness coats my skin and stains the armpits of my shirt. My palms clench and unclench as if the muscles glitch. My foot bounces and knee taps the cabinet beneath the bar.
Why the hell does the outcome have me on the edge of a cliff?
I peek over at Peyton and see her biting her lower lip. Watch her pick at the bottom hem of her shirt. When she notices me checking her out, she throws me a half smile.
Her apprehension is cute as fuck.
The bar erupts in cheers and I shift my eyes back to lumberjack man. Who has a hand in the air. The hand that says I just fucking won.
“Hell yes!” I shout as Peyton pushes her lower lip out to pout. And fuck if I don’t want to suck on her lip.
“What’s my punishment?” she asks as we clean up and business returns to normal.
My bicep grazes hers as we clean glasses and I freeze. Heat starts as a low simmer at my elbow and burns hotter as it nears my chest. A peek down at her still hands tells me she feels it, too.
“Have to think on it,” I rasp out. “I’ll let you know before we leave.” Once everything from the Micah makes the best drinks contest is cleaned up, I dry my hands. “Going to do paperwork,” I tell her, then walk on uneven legs to the office.
Behind the closed door, I adjust myself and groan as I sit. The worn, stiff chair does me no favors as I shift to find a more comfortable position. Damn, I was on edge. Her pouty lips and punishment inquiry… my dick grew ridiculously painful beneath the zipper.
I close my eyes and her face pops up behind my lids. The occasional flyaway lock of blonde hair on her cheek. How her violet irises glow when she gets excited and the gray flecks enhance the darker rim. Her not too thin, not too thick button nose. And her perfect fucking lips. So pink and fleshy and suckable.
My eyes fly open as I curse and adjust myself. Again.
I wiggle the mouse to wake the computer and open the invoice spreadsheet. Dragging the wire basket across the desk, I get to work plugging numbers and updating inventory. Spreadsheets… a surefire way to kill arousal.
Peyton enters the office as I pick up the last invoice. “Last call,” she informs me.
My eyes dart to the upper right of the screen and note the time. Almost two in the morning. “Well, shit.”
She laughs. “Time flies when you’re having fun.”
I wave an invoice in the air. “Were you a math nerd?” Only numbers people get excited over this kind of stuff. Not that I failed math, but when they added letters with the numbers to equations, I questioned everything.
“Wouldn’t say nerd. But me and numbers are good friends.”
She spins and starts for the hall. “Peyton.”
“Yeah?” She eyes me over her shoulder.
“Hang out with me tomorrow.”
“Sorry, what?” She backtracks and faces me again.
“Call it your punishment. Hang out with me.” A wince stretches her lips. “My friends will be there. And my sister.”
“Uh…” Her eyes dart around the room a moment then land on mine. “That sounds…”
“Fun?”
“Actually, I was going to say awkward.”