Bar Bites: A Man of the Month Cookbook (Man of the Month 13)

"That's okay," he said. "That would mean December would come, when? In September? Three months early. I can handle that."

"Hmm. Good point. But does that mean that May's already behind us? Because that means I didn't get everything in this semester. I don't want to crash and burn in my masters program just because I wore a dress out of season."

"Right. So that's no good. How about we let the months stay the same, and we'll just call the dress a Tiffany Russell fashion statement."

"That's me. The ultimate trendsetter." She looked around. "Nice apartment."

"If by nice you mean completely uninteresting, then I agree with you."

She laughed. "Well, it is a little sparse. But it has potential."

She was right on both counts.

"The potential's why I rented it," he said. "I like the open floor plan so I can get in and out of the kitchen easily. The master bedroom is huge, and there's a smaller bedroom for guests."

"Have a lot of those?"

"Not really, but my cousin's a single mom. Sometimes I watch her little boy. When she needs some sanity time. Or when she needs sex and wants him out of the house."

Tiffany burst out laughing. "Lucky she has you. That explains the two-bedroom. I'm guessing the big kitchen is so you can fiddle around with drink mixes and appetizers?"

"You got it." For years, he'd been experimenting with making cocktails, and Tyree had even put a few of his creations on the menu at The Fix. But it was only since The Fix sponsored a food fair last October that he'd started trying a hand in

the kitchen. He wasn't great--not yet--but he enjoyed it. And he wanted to speak the language of food as well as he did that of alcohol. To be able to pair things without a recipe book, but simply because he knew the essence of the ingredients.

"That explains the layout," she said. "But you have a card table to eat on, a futon for a couch, a bookshelf that's overflowing--some awesome titles, by the way--some milk crates supporting a piece of plywood for a coffee table. What's in the bedroom? A blow-up air mattress?"

"Want me to show you?" The instant he spoke, he regretted it. The words might be innocent, but his intention definitely wasn't. From the way she tilted her head to the side, he was certain she'd heard the underlying invitation. When her cheeks flushed and she flashed a tiny half-smile before saying, "Maybe later," he was sure of it. And the fact that he'd heard as much heat as humor in that response not only gave him cause to be optimistic, it also gave him a hard-on.

"Right." He cleared his throat, then turned toward the kitchen, both so that he could offer her a drink and so that he could hide some of the evidence that she was making him crazy.

Despite the open floor plan, there was still a small breakfast bar off the counter near the refrigerator, and he gestured for her to sit there.

"Want a drink before we go down?"

"Down?"

"The party's in the pool building. There's a bar down there, but I can't vouch for the offerings."

Eric was a drink snob, a fact that pretty much everyone at the bar knew. Not that he didn't think there was a place for cheap alcohol, but he'd decided long ago to make his living tending bar until he could move up to owning his own place. Before that, he'd considered being a sommelier--his palate was excellent--but had quickly learned that he liked the social aspect of tending bar. His parents had been less than enthusiastic when he'd told them, but when he paid his own way through business school at UT so that he'd have the skills to open a restaurant when the time came, they got on board.

Plus, they really appreciated having someone in the family who could make a decent margarita.

Which, frankly, seemed like a good idea now.

When he suggested it, Tiffany nodded enthusiastically. "Much better than the cheap wine and beer they have downstairs, I'm sure. Besides, I'm in no hurry if you aren't."

He met her eyes. "No hurry at all."

Two margaritas each later, and they still weren't in a hurry. They had, however, moved to the futon. Or Eric had. Tiffany was sitting the floor on the other side of the table, her legs straight out in front of her, her hands behind her to prop herself up. Every few minutes, she'd lean forward and take a sip of her drink, a process that caused her dress to shift and cling in a way that made Eric glad he was seated.

Almost an hour had passed, and they were talking about everything and nothing. Currently, about Tiffany's plan to run in the Capital 10K. "Since when are you a runner?"

"I'm a runner," she said indignantly. "I'm just not an experienced runner. But I'm getting better."

"Didn't we have a conversation about this time last year when you told me I was--how did you put it--battier than the bats under the bridge if I thought that running ten kilometers in the Texas heat sounded like a good time?"

"No contradiction at all," she said. "I'm obviously just as crazy as you are."