Page 42 of Austin

He doesn’t watch her walk away, which, from the way she’s swaying her hips, I’m pretty sure was the goal.

“I take it, you come here often?” I ask, opening my menu.

“Yeah. I usually come here alone. It’s not exactly the business-lunch kind of place.”

“I think the hostess has the hots for you.”

“We fucked last week,” he says nonchalantly.

I take in a sharp breath, dropping my menu.

“I’m kidding. I just wanted to see your reaction.” He smiles, placing his napkin on his lap.

“Ha-ha. Very funny.” I lean over and pick my menu up off the floor.

“Thank you. I thought it was.”

The waitress approaches our table with a small glass full of ice and a brown liquid filling only an inch or so. “Just as you like it,” she says.

“I’ll have an iced tea.” I lean forward to get her attention.

When her head turns my way with a closed-mouth smile, I give her my own and watch her leave. Austin seems oblivious as he takes a sip of his drink.

“Do you always drink in the middle of the day?”

“Yes. And most mornings.” He stops and raises his eyes to the ceiling in contemplation. “Not so much the last week or so, but, yes, I enjoy a cocktail or two. Now, this”—he taps the glass—“this is special. I only have it when I come here. It’s Louis XIII Cognac.”

“Is that something special I should know about?”

“Only if you’re into cognac.”

“And like to throw away money?”

He laughs. “Yes, I guess you could say that, but why have money if you can’t enjoy it?”

I lift my eyebrows and shake my head, looking down to my menu again. I have no clue what that feels like.

The waitress brings my drink and asks, “Are you ready to order?”

She’s looking at me, and I’m still clueless over the menu.

“She’ll have what I’m having,” Austin answers for me.

“I will?” I glare at him.

“I seem to know what you like more than you do. Trust me on this.”

The waitress grabs my menu and leaves.

He eyes me as I sip my iced tea. “Do you want that spiked?”

I shake my head. “I don’t drink.”

Leaning back, he punches a hand on his heart like I just drove a knife through it. “Why not?”

“My father’s an alcoholic.”

He stops his mock theatrics and straightens up. His hand goes straight for his glass but then releases it.