No one can.
“I’m out of dry ice. Otherwise, I’d put a tiny chunk in the drink and fog would swirl out of it.”
The bartender’s deep voice jolts me out of my thoughts. Just as well. I hate thinking about what brought me here. I prefer to think about why anyone else comes here—to learn, to grow, to create.
And probably to meet a gorgeous bartender with a bronze tan, broad shoulders, dark hair that falls below his ears, and eyes that seem to pierce a woman’s soul. Even in the bright blue island shirt with palm trees and flamingos—this guy pulls it off as if it’s this season’s Armani.
“I ordered a bunch for Halloween next month,” he continues. “I’m working on some great new concoctions.” He eyes the drink I still haven’t tasted. “What are you waiting for, pretty girl?”
I grab the stem of the glass once more and bring the drink to my lips.
Flavor explodes across my tongue. Pineapple, orange, banana, almond. And rum. A lot of rum. I swallow.
“Well…?” he says.
“It’s delicious.” I swallow again, this time against the sharpness of the alcohol.
He smiles. “Too much?”
I return his smile this time. “Nope. Just enough.”
2
Scotty
“What’s your name, pretty girl?”
I admit it. I call them all “pretty girl.” This one, though, gives new meaning to the phrase. “Pretty girl” isn’t nearly descriptive enough for her long dark hair, deep brown eyes, rosy cheeks, and dark pink lips. And that body…
She’s tall and slim with breasts that are spilling out of her halter top.
“Emily. What’s yours?”
“Keanu.”
She smiles. “No shit?”
“My mom’s a big fan. Plus, I’m half Hawaiian. Everyone around here calls me Scotty.”
“Why?”
“That’s my last name. Scott. Not Reeves.”
“Ah. Got it.”
“What’s your last name, pretty Emily?”
She falters a moment. Then, “Smith.”
Smith. Nice try. I’m more likely to believe it’s Hornswoggle than Smith, especially after she stumbled.
“Okay, Emily Smith. Nice to meet you.”
She clears her throat softly. “You too.”
“What brings you here? Are you an artist?”
“I’m trying to be.”
“This is the place for you, then. Roy and Charlie Wolfe are great. Both really talented too.”
She nods. “I haven’t met them yet. I just got here a few days ago.”
“A few days ago? And I’m just now seeing you? Where’ve you been?”
“In my room, mostly.”
“Emily, you’ve got this gorgeous island at your disposal and you’ve been in your room?”
“Not the whole time,” she says. “But the view from my lanai is breathtaking. I’ve been painting it every day.”
“Look around you, pretty girl. This whole place is breathtaking. I consider myself lucky every day that I landed this gig.”
She takes another sip of the drink and winces. Yeah, it is pretty strong, but I’ve never had anyone not love it.
“What’s this called?” she asks.
“It doesn’t really have a name. It’s just my special drink.”
“Seriously? It doesn’t have a name?”
“No. Why should it?”
“Because it’s delicious. It should be in that book. What’s it called? The Boston Bartender?”
“You mean Mr. Boston Official Bartender’s Guide.”
“Yeah. That one.”
I laugh. “That’ll be the day.”
“Why not? It’s wonderful.”
“I’m sure it’s been done before.”
“I’ve never heard of anything called Keanu Scotty Scott’s special drink.”
She’s got me there. “Tell you what,” I say. “You can name the drink.”
She swallows her latest sip. “Me?”
“Sure. Why not? You’re the one who thinks it’s supposed to have a name.”
“I’ll have to think on it.” She takes another sip and then sets the drink down on the coaster I provided. “What’s Crème de Noyaux?”
“It’s a liqueur made from apricot kernels or peach and cherry pits. Which is weird, because it tastes like almonds.”
“What makes it pink?”
“It’s a chemical reaction from the acid in the pits when the sugars ferment into alcohol.”
“Really?” She widens her eyes. “Interesting.”
I smile. I’ve given that bogus explanation to many a female since I created the drink during my first bartending gig in Honolulu, and every single one of them has bought it. For some reason, women always want to know why the liqueur is pink.
Take that back. A chemical engineer—who was hot as hell, by the way—called me out. Other than her, though, everyone has bought it—and I still got her between the sheets.
For some reason, though, lying to Emily unnerves me. I have no idea why. Certainly not her looks. I’ve put one over on my share of beautiful women.
“I’m kidding,” I say. “It’s artificially colored.”
She looks. “I suppose I might know that if I were more worldly.”
“Trust me. A lot of really intelligent women have fallen for it. Doesn’t mean you’re not worldly.”
“I’m not,” she says. “At least, I don’t want to be.”
“Oh? What do you want to be, then?”
She sighs. “Right now? I just want to be invisible.”
I shake my head and grin. “You’re way too beautiful to ever be invisible.”
Her cheeks redden. So do the tops of her breasts.
Damn.
“Thank you,” she says finally.
“No thanks needed. You want another?” I point to her nearly empty cocktail glass.