Her smile is instant, and I hate that a sliver of jealousy slices through the center of my chest. “Carol and Nick are about to leave with Remy, so I wanted to make sure we got to say goodbye.”
Henley turns to face me, but I hold my hand up before he can speak. “Go. I’ll be fine. I need a refill anyway.”
The second they’re gone, I head toward the bar, eager for another drink to dull the ache in my chest. But then my eyes land on the ass of a woman flirting with the bartender, and I don’t even need to see her face to know who it is.
Jesus Christ, I have a problem.
“You know,” Dilynne says, biting her bottom lip as the bartender’s gaze drops down to her cleavage and then back up, “I have a theory that a man who can make a good martini must be good in bed.”
“Is that so?”
She nods. “Absolutely.”
He leans closer to her as he holds the shaker in one hand, clearly hooked. “And why is that?”
“Because martinis are all about the right ratios and details.” She trails a finger over the hand he has braced on the bar, and something twists low in my gut. “The perfect martini requires patience. Skill. Any man who can make that drink probably knows how to use those talents in other areas as well.”
Not wanting to witness another second of this horrible exchange — especially since it’s spiking this unexplainable jealousy—I slide my glass along the surface of the bar so it hits their intertwined hands. “Can I get a refill, please?”
Dilynne glares at me over her shoulder, a look she’s given me hundreds of times before, but instead of reminding me to walk away like it should, it makes me want to rile her up even further.
“I’ll be right with you,” the bartender says, making eye contact with me before turning back to Dilynne.
Irritation fills me, so I decide to put an end to this little charade. Patting Dilynne on the arm, her silky skin under my touch doing its best to distract me, I lean in closer and say, “Glad your syphilis has finally cleared up.”
Dilynne’s jaw clenches tight before she mutters under her breath. “You motherfucker.”
The bartender instantly stands tall again and drops his eyes up and down Dilynne before reaching for a glass and emptying the contents of thetumbler, sliding the martini in her direction. “Uh, here’s your drink.”
Dilynne softens her face when she turns back to the man whose dick is probably shriveled up inside of his slacks right now.
And I’m fucking giddy on the inside. My face sure as fuck doesn’t show that, though.
“I don’t have syphilis,” Dilynne starts, but he holds up a hand, stopping her.
“It’s okay. I should, uh…get back to work anyway,” he says, reaching for my glass and then asking me, “Whiskey?”
“Jack Daniels, please.”
Dilynne plants a hand on her hip as she twists to face me. “So, you’ve been out of rehab for two days and you’re already drinking?”
Fighting fire with fire, I see.
Honestly, I wouldn’t expect anything less.
“Yeah, your baby daddy broke me out after he got out of prison.”
The bartender’s brows are drawn so tightly together, I’m afraid they might stay that way.
Dilynne tongues her cheek before she responds. “Well, you’re the one who orchestrated the drug ring, so you might say it’s your fault little Jimmy was without his father for the past two years.”
“That may be, but you’re the one who destroyed your family when you slept with your new dealer.”
A throat clearing interrupts our exchange, but my pulse is thrumming. And yet again, Dilynne Clark seems to be the only woman that can make it do so.
“Your…Jack Daniels,” the bartender says, pulling my attention to him.
“Thank you.” I take a sip of my drink and then give Dilynne my back, heading as far away as I can from my raven-haired nemesis so I’m not tempted to shut her up in other ways.