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Revealing a hint of a smirk, he leans forward and rests his forearms on the bar. “Then I look forward to punishing you later.”
“Can’t wait.”
A beautiful, wide smile breaks, and he sighs, holding his hand out. “Come to me, baby.”
Melting.
I walk to him and take his hand, letting him hold it as I slip onto the stool next to him. Clinton raises an interested brow as he heads our way. “Good to see you again,” he says, turning his interest onto Jude.
I just catch Jude’s tired look before he shuts the lid of his laptop and pulls a file closer, flipping it open. I wince at the sight of his scuffed knuckles. “Let’s do this,” he says.
I crane my neck to try and see what he’s looking at. “What are we doing?”
“Cocktail tasting.”
“You said I’m helping you with work.”
“You are.” He reaches for my lips and drags his thumb across the bottom one, watching me come over all hot and bothered. “Clinton’s been working on some new recipes for the cocktail menu, and we have to try them.”
“It’s ten a.m.”
Jude smiles mildly, and another whoosh of tingles bursts inside me. “We’re tasting, Amelia, not getting out-of-our-skull drunk.”
“First up is the Arlington,” Clinton says, drying his hands on a cloth before pinching the stem of a coupe glass and setting it in front of us.
Jude folds his arms and nods for me to go ahead, so I do, taking the glass as Clinton leans on the bar, studying me.
“Can I just check something?” I admire the huge decorative cube of ice that’s encasing a cherry. “There’s no nuts in any of these, is there?”
“No nuts.”
“Shit,” Jude breathes, his face falling. “I should’ve checked that.”
“I checked myself.”
“ButIshould have.”
I frown at the irritation growing before me. “It’s not your responsibility to investigate everything I put past my lips, Jude.”
The irritation seems to escalate before my eyes, and I lower the glass, stumped. Why is he getting so worked up over nothing?
“I should have checked,” he mutters, using the foot stand on his stool to push himself up and peek over the bar. “Those there,” he says, pointing to a few glass jars. “Do any contain nuts?”
Poor Clinton is as bemused as I am as he picks up a jar. “Almonds.”
“Why the hell do we have almonds?”
“To top the Celeste.”
“The sweet martini cocktail?”
“Yeah.”
Jude swings his gaze to me. “Never try that one.” Then he scans the bar as I watch, slightly concerned. “And those there, what are they?”
“Chili nuts,” Clinton replies. “And those are pistachios, and those are walnuts, and those are dry-roasted cashews.”
Jude looks like he’s about to have a hernia. “Why the fuck do we have so many nuts?”