Page 29 of Burn Bright

I let out a laugh. Of courseI choose to apply for a job in New York that’s going to torment mewithNew York.

Gavin pours himself a beer, then takes a frothy sip. “Let’s get started.”

It’s a majorly short interview. Except for the part where Gavin spends five minutes talking about how his girlfriend is obsessed withthe ballet and has seen my brother Beckett dance about two-hundred times. “He’s her hall pass,” he says casually like he didn’t just mention how he’d let his girlfriend fuck my brother.

Harriet’s face contorts like she swallowed curdled milk. I half-expect her to tell him this is a shit interview. More surprised when she doesn’t. She’s not impatiently rocking on her feet or sighing out in frustration. She’s quietly assessing Gavin, which is pulling her face between a cringe and a scowl.

I’m not a psychiatrist, but it seems like she’s biting her tongue. Maybe Harriet is more used to suppressing whatever tumbles around her head.

I’m more used to being around unfiltered people. And bypeople, I mean my family.

Gavin doesn’t ask for our experience behind the bar. Just has us make a whiskey sour in case Terry ever stops by. Harriet precisely measures out the bourbon. I confidently wing it.

With not enough shame (where did it go? Pretty sure it never existed), I copy off her. I think she’s pissed at first but then she rolls her eyes and shows me exactly what goes into the drink. Because I have no fucking idea.

“You make these a lot?” I ask her while Gavin sets out the last chairs and leaves us alone behind the bar.

“Once or twice.” Harriet dips down to be eye-level with her lemon juice in the measuring cup. Beingveryexact.

“You hate the taste?” I wonder.

She stiffens a little as she straightens up. “I never tried it. I didn’t make it for myself.”

For who then?

I probably shouldn’t pry, but as I skim her, several theories crash too aggressively into me. I let one out. “Ex-boyfriend?”

“Yes and no.” She pours her lemon juice into a cocktail shaker. “Mom’s ex-boyfriend.” Her cheeks redden with hot flush. I wonder if she’s burning up all over.

Okay.It’s a sensitive topic.Tread lightly.“You’ve one-upped me because I’ve never made this in my life.”

“You don’t say?” Her brows lift into her bangs. “I couldn’t tell at all.”

I’m smiling while I guess how much lemon juice she used. I dump what I think is a healthy amount into my shaker.

“It’s three-fourths ounce,” she tells me, her voice pitching like I’m about to cut my hand when there are no knives near us, no threat of harm.

I stop and watch her intake a big breath to calm down. I’m not panicked at all. This isn’t a life-or-death situation, but I wonder why she feels like it’s one. “That looked like three-fourths,” I say. “Don’t you think?”

“No,” she says seriously. “It looked like a half a cup. Which isfourounces.”

Fuck. I grab the bottle of bourbon, adding a touch morewithoutmeasuring.

“You’re diabolical,” she says, watching closely. “Keep going. Keep going.” I take her advice. When I add enough liquor to combat the citrus that might still leave Gavin with permanently puckered cheeks, I set the alcohol aside.

She finds the simple syrup under the bar counter. “So you’ve never made one of these, but have you had one before?”

“No, I’m not much of a drinker.” I’d typically leave it there, but as our eyes catch, her ocean-blues are rough swells on me. And I find myself diving deeper. “Occasionally, I’ll have a beer, but the first time I got drunk, I felt too out of control around people I hardly knew. I ended up trying to fight the effects like I was in a duel with vodka.”

“Who won?” she wonders.

I scratch the back of my head at the memory. I was fifteen at a teammate’s house party. His parents weren’t home. “The vodka, probably.”

She nods slowly when I don’t elaborate, like she understands it might be a bad moment I’m not willing to share, but as she looks away, I just want her back.

“I could feel myself about to pass out at my friend’s party,” I explain, drawing her gaze to mine again. “So I locked myself in his parents’ wine cellar and called my older sister to come pick me up.”

Harriet processes this. “You were afraid someone would mess with you while you were out of it? I thought you trusted easily.” She’s short of saying,you trusted me.