by M. A. Ellis
Trey secretly hoped his uncle had come up with some last-minute Hail Mary play that would have her running straight into his arms when the day was over.
“I did.”
“Fuck,” Trey swore softly.
“Look on the bright side,” his uncle said and laughed. “At least now she’s not looking at you like she wants to cut your balls off.”
Trey looked up to find Susanne studying him, her expression not quite as dark as it had been but still not anything that could be misconstrued as remotely friendly. He heaved a heavy sigh and took a seat next to his uncle, telling himself he should be happy for small favors.
“Yeah, you old coot. There is that.”
* * * * *
“Congratulations to the three of you. Over the past five days you’ve proven your creativity and tenacity and today, you’ll need those skills and more to walk away with the honor of being proclaimed Master Mixologist. In addition to the cash prize, the winner will have the opportunity to chat with each of the eight celebrity restaurateurs as well as our four guest judges, each of whom have culinary sectors in each of their business empires.”
Susanne tuned out the rest of the host’s words, knowing the introductions were for the benefit of the cameras. Every contestant knew the skinny on who was there, what specific opportunities and areas of specialization each man and woman held.
Wouldn’t it have been great if those dossiers had included the names of extended family members who might happen to show up in a bar and unceremoniously proceed to rock a woman’s semi-mundane world?
“So, contestants, your final challenge is quite simple. Last evening, we provided you all with various diversions throughout the night. Let’s take a look.”
The host paused but held his spot on the stage. Footage of the evening’s events would undoubtedly be inserted during the final editing process. The host began talking again, thanking all those who participated in making the night a grand success.
“Your challenge is to take a moment from your final evening here in Miami and build a drink that encompasses the essence of that moment. You can use anything in the kitchen. Anything you would have had access to last night. Good luck. Your time starts now.”
Susanne’s mind raced and she turned quickly and surveyed her choice of glasses. She stole a quick glance at her competitors and saw neither had gone for a martini glass and she made her choice, trying not to second-guess her decision. Her previous win had been with a martini. The judges might find it redundant but her intuition was telling her to go for it. She filled the glasses with crushed ice and rushed to put them in the freezer before facing the wall of liquors.
Take a moment from your final evening here in Miami.
There was no logical path for her thoughts to traverse, other than directly back to Trey. A man had never been her inspiration for a drink and she hoped like hell that when she won, she’d be able to concoct some feasible explanation for her creation other than the fact that she was going for something that reminded her of his lovemaking. Something that made you burn but in the sweetest of ways.
Not vodka. Overdone.
Not gin. Not even Sapphire?
No way. Rum could work. Too sweet.
She closed her eyes, remembering the feel of his hands, the soft insistence of his lips, his tongue snaking between her teeth as he stroked the recesses of her mouth, demanding she give something in return. She recalled the way she had swirled her tongue around his. How he had moaned and plundered deeper.
Susanne’s eyes shot open. She knew what she needed. She searched the shelves, praying she’d find a bottle of top-shelf blackberry brandy. It was the exact taste she thought of when she thought of Trey. Blackberries. And a subtle hint of Jack.
“Yes,” she hissed loudly when she found two bottles of the liquor, one domestic, and one imported from the Netherlands. She opened both and poured a sample of each into shot glasses. She opted for the import with its fuller flavor and headed toward her lineup of cocktail shakers. With any luck, she’d get the ratio close the first go-round. She snagged the bottle of Old No. 7 and tried not to think too far ahead.
She measured, shook, strained and tasted. Her first try was a little too heavy, the whiskey too unrefined to balance the essence of the fruit. She needed a mellower blend.
I raised my sister’s boy to be a perfect gentleman.
Susanne looked up, directly into Walt Ryder’s eyes as inspiration assailed her. She rushed to the liquor shelves and grabbed a different bottle. By the third attempt, she had her creation exactly where she wanted it. To make certain she couldn’t improve further, she made one more martini, not adding the brandy until after the drink was strained into the glass, instinctively knowing the blackberry would shine through a little more. She brought the glass to her lips, tasting perfection as her mind ran a little wild.
You’re gonna need a kickass garnish. Something with a little more impact than wedges or twists or licorice straws.
Susanne stopped mid-sip as an idea hit her.
“Can we use things from our rooms? Everything in there was accessible last night,” she yelled to the host, setting the glass down as she ran to the bar fridge to see what berries were inside. Blueberries. Raspberries—red and hybrid yellow. No blackberries.
Dammit!
She looked up just as the producer gave their host the thumbs-up sign.
“Am I allowed to leave the room or do I need to have it brought here?” She aimed her question directly toward him.
The producer talked rapidly into his head set and Susanne saw a flurry of movement to her right before the crack of the speakers sounded and the entire assemblage heard his decisive, “You can go.”
She ran out of the ballroom and down the corridor toward the lobby, the jingle, jingle, jingle of the cameraman’s huge key ring offering a distraction from the sound of her heart beating in her ears. She knew she must look like a maniac but she didn’t have much time to pull this off. A mad dash all in the name of garnish. One that would be the perfect accompaniment to the drink. One that totally represented the man who inspired her.
They rushed the elevator and guests scattered. The camera lent an air of credibility, she guessed. She yanked her key out of her back pocket, inserted it the slot and pressed her floor number while opening the emergency phone panel and dialing the hotel operator.
“Room 2112. It’s an emergency.” The cameraman peered around his screen at her and she gave him a stern look as she waited. “Robert! Listen. I need you to meet me at the elevator in thirty seconds with the following items.”
* * * * *
Trey watched a triumphant grin break out upon Susanne’s face as she raced around the makeshift bar and headed toward the door, a cameraman suddenly flanking her.
“She’s got something good up her sleeve,” his uncle whispered with a chuckle, rubbing his weathered palms together with glee.
Trey wished he felt as happy.
“I think those two guys she’s up against just shit their pants,” Chrissy said loudly.
From the next booth the king of culinary throwdowns shot them all a displeased glance and Trey smiled an apology, while mentally agreeing with his sibling.
Trey thought Susanne looked as if the hounds of hell were snapping at her heels when she rushed from the room and he couldn’t figure out what could possibly be upstairs that might ensure her win. He watched the two men continue their own flurry of activity while the minutes ticked away. From his vantage point in the judges’ booth he hadn’t been able to see the actual mixing Susanne had done but he’d seen her grab martini glasses, a bottle of some dark liquor and the Jack. That’s when the little gut-kick sensation had hit.
She had myriad spirits to choose from, yet she’d picked his brand of preference. Which meant she was thinking of him. Maybe he’d made enough of an impression that she hadn’t totally written him off.
Or maybe that’s just wishful male thinking, son.
He looked at his uncle to
make sure those words hadn’t come out of his mouth. The old man focused on the action in front of them, a pleasant grin plastered on his face.
At the moment, he didn’t share his uncle’s merriment. His emotions kept swinging from one end of the spectrum to the other. He needed to talk to Susanne. Explain his side of the story. He was certain his uncle had done a less than admirable job of that. Walt tended to offer explanations on a need-to-know basis and Trey was certain there were plenty of things Susanne needed to know, staring with why he had felt compelled to sneak away in the dead of night like an old tomcat.
He would love to have had her wake up in his arms. He still would. Admitting that fact lifted a little of the weight off his chest but the chances of her forgiving him were fairly nil. Even if Walt somehow worked his magic and she ended up coming to Tejas he wasn’t sure he’d get a second chance to charm her. To woo her, as Walt said. She could easily choose to be headquartered at any one of his uncle’s domestic estate offices. She had no reason to pick a ranch in Texas over the villa in Boca or the chalet in Tahoe. He doubted the fishing lodge in Minnesota would be at the top of her list, which left Phoenix and Kansas City.
He was about to weigh the merits of each city and how often he might be able to leave his job to be with her when the door swung open and she hurried back into the room, a bowl of blackberries in one hand and a plastic grocery bag swinging from the other.
She went for the blackberries, son. Now that’s gotta mean somethin’.
Trey hoped like hell that, for once, the familiar voice in his head was right.
Chapter Five
Susanne began working her way down the boxes of judges, carefully placing a cocktail in front of each one as she spoke. She couldn’t have been happier that they had drawn numbers and her offering was to be served last. One of the not-so-dynamic duo had imploded when he had failed to taste the strawberries he had used for garnish. Two of the judges had actually gagged when they tasted the mealy fruit. Her remaining nemesis was so convinced his Cubano mango mojito was prize worthy that he had already adopted a victorious air that more than a few of the judges had obviously found annoying. Neither men had used the same muse as Susanne and she turned up the wattage on her smile. Anyone in her industry knew that skill could take you to the top of the ladder. Personality was key to being permitted to jump in the pool.
“The inspiration for my drink came from the talented men from the National Rodeo Association who, each in their own way, thoroughly entertained us on our last evening here in Miami. I see some of them are here today.” She inclined her head toward the left side of the stage, smiling at the collective nervous shuffling of cowboy boots. “I think a round of applause is in order for their stellar performance.”
She moved down the line of judges as clapping broke out, happy she hadn’t been standing anywhere near Trey when those words had left her mouth.
“Until last night, I didn’t know that much about cowboys other than what I had seen on television or in the movies. But let me tell you something, reruns of The Wild, Wild West don’t do these men justice. Obviously, they’re not lacking in courage and strength. They haul themselves up on fifteen-hundred-pound animals whose sole purpose in life is bucking them off their backs and trying to trample them into the ground. I’ve heard it’s similar to an Anthony Bourdain critique—but a little less fearful.”
A round of light laughter erupted, including an indulgent smile from the man himself and Susanne didn’t stop.
“I learned they’re strong as can be but there’s an innate sweetness there as well. I found out that oftentimes it’s right there at the surface and other times it’s hidden a little deeper.”
Susanne stopped in front of the country’s top Southern female chef and carefully handed her a drink. “Either way, it’s a heady blend. All that ruggedness and sly smiles. One that’s so hard to resist with all those ‘yes, ma’ams’ and ‘it’d be my pleasures’.”
“I like the sound of that, darlin’,” the silver-haired beauty interrupted. Her deep, contagious laugh carried through the room and Susanne couldn’t help but grin. “Keep on talkin’ but if it’s a-goin’ to get any hotter in here, someone needs to grab me a fan!”
Susanne waited for another round of laughter to die down.
“With all that in mind, I’ve created the Devil-tini. What I was striving for with this drink was a layering of strong and sweet. I chose whiskey and blackberry brandy as the key components. The whiskey offers the potency but through distillation it’s been mellowed enough to ensure sipability. And because those cowboys are the epitome of courtesy, I went with Gentleman Jack Rare Tennessee Whiskey. The most mellow of Lynchburg’s offerings, it contains a hint of fruit, which allows a smooth transition between the higher alcohol content and the brandy.”
Susanne made it to the Tejas box, priding herself on the fact that she was able to hand them their drinks without a single spill. Her palms were clammy and she didn’t want to think about what might be going through Trey’s mind as she offered her explanation. The look on his face was borderline disbelief.
She backed up so she could address the entire group of judges, forcing herself to forget about him until her explanation was complete.
“If you’re a fan of initial sweetness, then by all means go for the actual blackberry before your first sip. For those who like their sweetness at the end, I waited until after straining and slowly added the blackberry brandy. This gives the drink that deep coloring at the bottom of the glass and offers a fruity finish. Enjoy.”
Susanne looked at each and every one of them as they tried her drink. No grimacing. More than a few head nods. One big smacking of lips. Susanne smiled in the woman’s direction and received another wink.
“Great creativity with the garnish,” a heavily French-accented voice offered.
“Thank you, Chef Torres,” she replied, her chest swelling with pride as she secretly agreed. They never need know the true impetus of the cherry licorice lasso or the plump blackberry it held suspended at mid-drink level.
“Is that licorice tied in an authentic roper’s knot?” the host asked.
“I’m not sure,” Susanne replied with a short laugh, her stomach twisting. “I was just trying to find a way to make the berry look like it had been lassoed and not fall to the bottom of the drink.”
“I think it might be.” Susanne heard the older man’s voice and miraculously kept the smile plastered on her face as she turned her head in Walt’s direction. He looked at Susanne and raised one white brow. “I’m no expert but my nephew is. What’s the verdict, son? Does the lady know what she’s doing?”
Trey’s dark eyes bore into Susanne’s and she felt her mask of neutrality begin to crumble. His gaze raked her from head to toe and back again and she prayed like hell the cameras weren’t able to capture the heated look.
“No doubt about it, sir. The lady definitely knows her knots. It’s the sort of skill that would make any cowboy stand up and take notice. I’m thinking she might have learned from the best.”
Susanne broke out in a cold sweat as she watched him slide his chair back and actually stand up.
Dear god in heaven. What’s he doing?
“Could just be dumb luck on her part,” the old man said in a voice that conveyed a high level of doubt that had the other judges shifting in their seats, giving him their full attention.
What do you think, Susie? When this is over, I say we kill the old bastard.
Susanne’s heart drummed in her chest as Trey ignored the frantic waving of the stagehand. His long strides and determined walk had a flush of heat shooting through her.
Please, please, please. Someone make him stop. Don’t let him come closer.
She’d had every intention of hating him…until his crazy uncle had made her reconsider motives and culpability. She wanted this win so much but she was horribly afraid that she wanted him more.
He didn’t stop until they were standing toe to toe and she was staring at
his chest.
“And I hate to prove you wrong, old man, but there isn’t a dumb bone anywhere in that beautiful body.”
She heard the gasps of the production staff, the murmurs from the judges’ boxes. A lone “Go for it, Ryder” from the general vicinity of where the other cowboys were sitting.
Her eyes began to burn and she bit her lip.
“Look at me.” His warm breath tickled her nose, his words barely audible.
“No,” she whispered on a ragged breath. This was it. The end to all her hard work. Any second now the producer would be yelling “cut” and her dreams would be over.
Maybe not all of them.
He gripped her chin and slowly eased her head backward, forcing her to meet his eyes.
“I thought we had an agreement, you and I. About that word ‘no’.”
“That was before you disappeared,” she replied a little louder than was necessary. She didn’t care. Until she saw a flash of hurt cross his eyes.
“I’m sorry about that. I truly am. But I’m here now. Exactly where I want to be. Where I was meant to be. With you in my arms.”
“I’m not in your arms,” she said, silently cursing when her vision became watery.
“Is that good or bad?” he asked, brushing the wetness away just as the tear began to fall. He cradled her face between his large hands and waited for an answer.
“Bad,” she finally replied.
“As bad as me kissing you in front of half a million people.”
Once again, he was letting her decide what was to come. She could tell him to go. Turn him away and pray the producers would think he was insane. Too much sun, maybe. One fall too many from a bucking bull.
He stood before her, the brim of his hat blocking the light from above. She hadn’t really noticed until that moment that his headgear was solid black. Today, he had bad boy potential. She liked that part of him and doubted she could ever live without it.
“Don’t worry. The producers will edit all this out,” she said, offering him a slow, teasing smile as she wrapped her arms around his neck.
