At dinner that night, it isn’t until after we receive our order—a colossal seafood tower overflowing with three tiers of perfectly pink lobster tails, king crab legs, and jumbo shrimp cocktail—that I realize how hungry I actually am, until I see the raw oysters on a half shell. Those are all for Austin, and no matter how he teases each one near my lips, there is zero chance that slime-fest is entering my mouth.
After he slurps down the latest one I refused, he smiles. “You should really try at least one. Fancy high-society people eat this all the time.”
“I know. Blech. Even back in the days when my FOMO was out of control, I tried and failed multiple times.”
“Hmm.” The conniving man strokes the stubble of his jaw. “Does that mean it’s on your bucket list?”
Wide-eyed, I’m stern when I say, “Not just no, but hell no. Huh-uh. Nope. Not going to happen.” I shake my head defiantly, glaring at him.
“Yet it’s something you wanted to do, but never got the chance. Those were your words.”
“Never got over my gag reflex is more like it.”
“Well, how about you let me tackle both,” he says before turning us both deepening shades of red. “I mean, with an oyster. Tackle your bucket list item and—”
“Tackle my gag reflex. Those were your words.” By now I’m giggling, delighted as he dies of embarrassment before my eyes. “I’ve seen you buck naked several times, and this is what makes you blush?”
“Hey,” he says, shaking his head in firm disagreement. “You only saw me naked once. Okay, twice, counting today.”
“That you know of.” Unashamed, I give him a smug grin. “I might have caught your full monty through your window a time or two. Or ten.”
His face falls into the palm of his hand before he composes himself, sitting up straighter and crossing his arms. “You know, you had me stripping in front of you again tonight. I’d say the least you can do for all that man-candy show is swallow a little oyster.”
My shoulders drop in pure defeat. “I’m not denying I’ve wanted to say yes to the whole sloppy mess. At least pull it off once just to say I did it. But you have no idea how my stomach is already assuming the upchuck position.”
Austin leans in. “Most of the time, you want to take a bite or two of the oyster before you swallow. To get the full flavor.”
“Gross,” I say, allowing myself a noticeable full-body shake.
“But in your case, I’m guessing you’ve tried that.”
“Yes, and of all the things I want touching the back of my throat, oysters rank dead last.”
“Evie, by that adorable accent you keep trying to hide, and your default position to take no shit, I’m guessing you’re a girl who knows how to toss back whiskey.”
Heat rises in my cheeks to know that my elocution lessons to shed the thick Texas accent of my childhood failed.
Austin calls over the waiter, then asks me, “Bourbon or rye?”
My give-a-fuck factor flies out the window as I think, hell yeah. “If we’re doing shots, we’re doing rye.”
Austin’s nod of appreciation makes me smile.
The waiter also approves. “A lady after my own heart.”
“Mine too,” Austin says, but I don’t make too much of his words until he says, “The lady and I will each have a shot of WhistlePig Twelve if you’ve got it.”
Delighted, I giggle as the waiter shoots me a wink. “Excellent choice.”
Austin sizes me up with a knowing glance, then looks back at the waiter. “Bring the bottle. Whatever we don’t finish, we’ll keep at the house.”
“Yes, sir. Be right back.”
I can’t help but clap my hands with delight as I bounce in my seat. “I haven’t done a shot of rye since school. Rye. Line dancing. A mechanical bull. I think you’re about to unleash my former party girl. That is, before I had to become an upstanding member of society.”
Austin’s demeanor changes, and his brow wrinkles. He looks as if he’s about to say something, then reconsiders.
“Spit it out.” I’m less cajoling and more demanding, not needing to wait on booze to make me a total boss babe.
“I’m afraid to tell you something. You’ll just use it against me.” His helpless gray eyes seem ready for me to unleash my best after a setup like that.
“Oh, and you think you’re keeping it from me now? Spill.”
Our waiter returns with two stately shot glasses and an amber bottle, the burgundy label reading whistlepig rye whiskey – old world – aged twelve years.
“This is perfect. Thanks, Rusty.”
“My pleasure,” our waiter says as he cracks the seal, twists the cork, and is about to pour.
“I’ve got it,” Austin says, and Rusty hands over the smooth glass bottle and withdraws to tend to another table.
My pout is obvious as Austin gives us each a disappointing half pour.
He looks up at me and grins. “What?”
“What’s with the baby pour?”
“I’m pretty sure you don’t give this to babies.”
I snatch up my glass, squinting at it at eye-level. “That is definitely a baby pour.”
“A full pour must be earned. Here’s the deal. You sip—or shoot—this baby pour, as you call it. That hit will give your throat just the slightest heat and an instant numbing sensation. Then toss back the oyster, hold your breath, and swallow. Your full pour will be waiting for you when you’re done. Ready?”
“Wait, wait, wait a second.” I’m stalling, but not just to avoid the inevitable. Also because the gorgeous bastard has left me hanging. “What’s your bucket-list item for the evening?”
“Hmm?” he asks innocently.
I give him the stink eye, and he completely caves under the weight of my glare.
“Okay. Fine. I’ve, um, never been line dancing.” His eye roll is precious.
My wide-eyed reaction makes him shift uncomfortably in his seat. “Oh. My. God. And you’ve wanted to?”
He says nothing, keeping his eyes on anything but mine.
“Well then, Mr. Byrne. That means after dinner we’re hittin’ a club.”
Okay, my accent is getting thicker by the second. Although I’d normally cringe at the unmistakable proof of my Southern upbringing, in this moment, I just don’t care.
“Well, you’ve got to down an oyster first. And there might not even be a line-dancing joint in Big Sur.”
“Oh, there is,” Rusty says helpfully, returning to bring fresh plates and clear the scavenged crab legs. “About six miles away. It’s a pretty jumping place. My brother is bartending tonight. I can call ahead so you can slip your whiskey inside, and he’ll keep it safe behind the bar.”
Austin ignores my squeals of delight as he deadpans to Rusty, “Thanks, man.”
“Anytime. Let me know if you need anything else.”
“Actually, do you mind if we leave my car here overnight? If it’s that close, we’ll grab a Lyft. I’m going to need a few drinks to get through a night of line dancing.”
“No problem at all,” Rusty says, grinning as he carries away the seafood shells.
Austin raises his half pour to me, and I lift my glass, ready for the clink. “To firsts.”
“To firsts!”