Pilot had just finished setting up the bar when she sauntered over from the control panel inside the interior helm. The heavy sunlight of near sunset cast a glow about her that set off her eyes. Propping her elbows on the glass bartop, Eden leaned in close and, if he hadn’t heard it himself he would not have believed it, she purred, “So what’s the bartender special?”
This fucking woman was going to ruin him. The riot of pterodactyls in his chest threatened to break free and take his pounding heart with them. How was he supposed to respond? With one of the countless sexual innuendo drink names? With something clever and previously unclaimed? With something she might actually drink? Surely, staring at her wine-stained lips wasn’t the solution, but, by Gods, it was easy to forget about everything else while he did. The image of the sun kissing her earlier that afternoon, so close to him that he could – unless his memory was carrying him away – feel her heartbeat thrumming against his own.
Maybe he shouldn’t even try to make her drink. He didn’t know with any kind of certainty that his hands would cooperate.
Against his better judgment, his mouth said the first drink that came to mind: “Have you ever had a London Fog?” Just pleased it wasn’t a bad innuendo that it made him want to throw up, he counted it as a success.
“I’ll take one,” she said, reaching forward to snatch a chunk of pineapple from the chilled compartment.
After he made the drinks, they slid into some lounge chairs and watched as the sun began to set. Over the ocean, the colors were more vivid and staggering than any he’d ever seen from shore. “So where are we going?”
Those lips curled upward, again, and he knew he would not get an answer. “You’ll see.”
“You’ve already got me on the yacht. You still can’t tell me?” It had been a long time since he’d felt so lighthearted.
She laughed, almost sloshing her drink over the edge of the glass. “The secret isn’t what got you on this yacht, Pilot Gallo, and you know it.”
She had him, there. He did know it.