Dear Heart, I Hate You

“Seriously? I thought so, but are you sure you’re even old enough to drink?” I asked with a laugh.

“Twenty-nine, babe. So just barely.”

He grinned at me then, a mischievous smile baring lots of perfect teeth, and my heart leaped at the sight. Or maybe it was the term of endearment. It was silly to get excited over something so small, but I’d been so focused on my career the last few years that I’d forgotten what my heart was even for, or how a simple nickname from the right guy’s mouth could cause it to hammer against my chest. Now, it seemed to be trying to remind me of its role with every single beat.

Prior to walking into this lobby tonight, I would have bet money against my heart ten times out of ten when it came to love. I was convinced that it didn’t care about anything other than work and my success. It especially didn’t care about the opposite sex. My heart didn’t need a man, didn’t want a man; it was perfectly fulfilled, beating only for my job.

I would have lost that bet the minute I met Cal Donovan.

My heart was clearly meant to want. It was meant to feel. It was meant to do more than just keep me alive. Oh, how I had forgotten.

“How about you?” he asked, and I struggled to remember what the hell we were talking about.

I glanced down and lifted one shoulder in a little shrug. “I’m only nineteen, so no. Not old enough to drink. At least, not legally.”

He froze for a second before he jerked his hand from my thigh as if it were scalding hot.

I burst out laughing, amused at the look of surprise on his face, which was slightly paler than it had been a moment ago. “I’m just kidding.”

“Oh, you’re hilarious.” He took a few deep breaths, clearly exaggerating his response and playing along.

“I’m twenty-seven,” I said truthfully, hoping his hand would return. And it did.

“Just a young’un.”

“Tell me about it, old man.”

He grabbed at his heart like my words wounded him before asking, “Do you drink bourbon?”

“I have before. But I didn’t enjoy it,” I admitted, fully expecting him to make fun of me about it. Everyone else always had.

“That’s because you didn’t drink it right,” he said, poking my shoulder with his finger.

“There’s a right way to drink that wretched alcohol?” I cocked my head to the side, not believing him.

A slight smile appeared as he leaned closer, bringing his lips a breath away from mine. “Of course there is. Let me teach you how.”

Lost in his eyes, I sucked in a quick breath. “Okay.”

I watched as he brought the glass to his mouth and pressed it against his bottom lip. Damn, I wanted to be that glass.

He inhaled but didn’t drink a drop.

“Do that three times,” he said. “Just breathe it in. You’ll start to feel it in your mouth, in your thro

at.”

As he repeated the movement twice more, my focus remained firmly trained on those damn lips. They had me under a spell. Seriously, that was one lucky glass.

His smirk reappeared when he caught me staring. I was probably drooling and had no clue.

“And now you sip it.”

He tilted the glass further back as the smallest amount of the amber liquid poured into his mouth and he swallowed. I was surprised he had no visible reaction at all, as if it didn’t burn like hell as it coursed down his throat. I wasn’t sure about most people, but just the smell of bourbon evoked a physical reaction from me.

“Your turn.” He set his glass on the table and pushed it in front of me.

I smiled as I reached for it, bringing it to my lips as he watched me with the same intensity as when I’d watched him. But it was unnerving, the way he stared. His hazel eyes were almost too intense, filled with too much of something I couldn’t entirely read, and it made me uncomfortable.