“Thought you might like that. Want to tell me the story again of how you met Mariano Rivera?”
“Are you saying I’ve told you that story too many times?”
“Oh, no. Never. I hardly remember it. Was it after the game one Sunday afternoon, and Charlotte snapped the photo by the third baseline?”
Truly arches a disdainful brow. “See if I ever invite you to a game again.”
“Please tell it to me once more. I can hear it for the ten thousandth time.”
“I’m literally never sharing someone else’s season tickets with you ever.”
“You will. You totally will.” I shift gears, pointing to the glasses. “Have you ever collected anything? Like shot glasses or license plates or aprons?”
“Nah, I don’t really like things. I suppose, technically, I collect pancake recipes. But I keep them up here.” She taps her skull.
“That is worth collecting.” I pause, picturing what I might amass if I had that itch. “If I were a collector, I’d go for typewriters.”
“Typewriters?”
“Those things you use to write on? They have little keys with the letters of the alphabet on them.”
“Ohhh. I was wondering what those were.” She picks up a wineglass and runs her thumb along the stem. “Do you really write on a typewriter? That’s so quaint.”
“God, no. I’d have to become a registered hipster if I did, and I’m not ready to move to Brooklyn yet. Come to think of it, I don’t own skinny jeans either.”
“Let’s keep it that way.”
“All right. Stop distracting me with talk of pancakes and typewriters. Why aren’t you on your knees?”
She taps me lightly on the chest with the rim of the glass. “Because you can’t have everything.”
“Don’t I know it.” I gesture to the overwhelming array of stemware lining the shelves—glasses for wine and martinis, for margaritas and champagne. “What are you shopping for?”
She shrugs happily. “Nothing and everything. By which I mean, I’ll know when I see it. But if I don’t check them out, how will I find that perfect new glass that tempts a customer? Gabriella’s the same. She actually sent me a list of new glasses she’s been coveting.”
She grabs her phone and shows me a text.
Gabriella: You must get Nick and Nora glasses. I both beg you and insist on it. They are sooo cool and so tren-day. Also, some V-shaped martini glasses for me? They make me happy. Pretty please!
“She’s enthusiastic.”
“That’s why she’s a keeper, and that’s why I want to move her up. She might love glasses as much as I do. After all, every drink needs the right glass. I’ve been in love with picking glasses and making drinks since I was a kid crafting the coolest mixes for my lemonade stand.”
“Seriously? You made fancy lemonades for sale?”
“Hell yeah. I hustled my ass off on the streets of the West Village, selling honey lemonade, red-pepper lemonade, cherry lemonade. But I mostly did it for fun. I made all sorts of concoctions growing up.”
“What besides lemonade was in your young mixologist repertoire?”
“Started with Shirley Temple, of course. Malone loved that. I tested all my creations on him, and my parents too. My dad went crazy for my Arnold Palmer. I’d set up at the kitchen counter with all the plastic cups and mismatched mugs. I’d mix sodas with syrups, and juices with other juices, and try to figure out the perfect garnish to add.”
“So you were, for all intents and purposes, always a bartender?” I ask as we wander down the next aisle, surveying sherry glasses and copper mugs.
“A businesswoman too. When I was a teenager, I made enough at my summer lemonade stand to cover my movie and lipstick budget.” She smiles, her glossy red lips shining. “I do like my lipstick.”
Oh, how I want to say, And I like kissing it off, but I’m on a flirting diet. So I focus on the non-naughty things she said. “And now you’re hoping to expand your business.”
“Yes. Let’s dive into it.” She finishes browsing the aisles, places an order with the woman who runs the shop, then we head to Prospect Park, grabbing a bench on the outskirts of the grass.
“The investor I mentioned? I pitched him on that Parisian-themed bar I want to open. He likes it, but his partners aren’t ready for that yet. So he asked me to put together a concept for a new bar, modeled after Gin Joint with signature cocktails, decor, and all that . . . but with a British theme.”
“And clearly I’m the only person you could possibly come to.”
“You are kind of my one British friend.”
“Good. Let’s keep it that way. I don’t want you accessible to any other Brits. They’re very dangerous, what with the way they speak in that sexy accent that makes American women swoon.”
She shoots me the side-eye. “You think I swoon when I hear your voice?”
“Swoon, throw your knickers at me, and want to have sex straightaway.” Maybe I was supposed to behave, but hell, it’s so damn hard with her. “It’s quite a burden to bear.”
“I thought we were trying to stay in the friend zone.”
I shoot her a you’re crazy stare. “Get your mind out of the gutter. I’m talking about the challenge of going around with this accent. Do you have any idea? Everybody wants me. Admit it. You do kind of melt a little when you hear me talk.”
“I admit nothing.”
“I’ll take that as a good thing.” I shift gears. Business now. Seriously. “Okay, so you’re using me for my pub expertise. What’s the plan?”
