Any Time, Any Place(17)

"Damn, I like you."

"Good to know. I gotta get back to my customers."

She turned, but he raised up his hand to stop her. "Wait. How about a consolation prize?"

"Sorry, the prize bucket is closed."

"Let me get my hands on your bar."

She paused, tapping her foot. Even though it would give her more time with him, there was no way she'd allow him such a gift. He might be the best-but she was positive that when she was ready to renovate, she'd be able to find someone else. Someone less . . . disturbing. "Sorry, Slick. I'm very choosy about who touches my bar. You're not on the list."

A stubborn light shone from his eyes. "Then I'll have to find a way to get on your list, won't I? Because I want it bad, Raven. Real bad."

Holy crap, her body practically wept with the need to shoot over the bar they were talking about, fist his shirt in her hands, and kiss that lush, sinful mouth. His slow, smug smile ramped up her irritation. She hated him knowing she wanted him. At least she could control his inability to do her bar. And do her.

"Take a lesson from the Stones. You can't always get what you want."

He never flinched. "Maybe. But I'm sure I'll eventually get what I need."

Because she couldn't speak, she did the next best thing. Rolled her eyes like she wasn't worried and walked away, pretending to serve another customer.

Unfortunately, Raven had a feeling he knew exactly how worried she was. Because for one tiny moment, she'd dreamed about being the woman who could give him exactly what he needed. In every way possible.

Finally Dalton left, and she steeped herself in prepping for the evening crowd and following the mystery of the new cocktail brewing in her mind. Amanda popped her head out of the kitchen, waving the cordless in her hand. "Phone for you, Raven!" 

Wiping off the stray leaves of basil and thyme clinging to her hands, she tucked the phone between her ear and chin. "Hello?"

"Raven Hawthorne?"

"I don't need any more credit cards, thank you."

A chuckle. The woman's voice held a sharp, no-nonsense ring that usually meant city bred. "Nope. I'm Anastasia Duncan, assistant editor from Good Food and Fine Spirits magazine. We do articles for restaurants located in the Northeast, and My Place has been brought to my attention. High reviews on the food and cocktails are creating quite the buzz. You're a mixologist, correct? Are you the one who conceptualizes all the cocktails?"

"Yes, I'm the owner and I make all the drinks."

"From scratch? I'd like to focus not only on the unique look of your restaurant, but how your cocktails are making a name with a new breed of customers who want more than the normal wine and beer."

Raven ignored her beating heart and took a breath. "Everything is created and prepared by me. I work with fresh herbs, vegetables, fruits, and various liquors."

"Excellent. I'd love to set up an interview."

Raven tried to keep the excitement from leaking into her voice. The magazine was well known in the food industry, and was starting to gather steam from consumers of great cocktails. "Sounds like a wonderful opportunity," she responded smoothly. "What do you need from me?"

Papers shuffled in the background. "I'm interested in doing a feature for the September issue. I'd need to schedule a tour and in-depth interview within a month. Is this a possibility?"

"Of course. Let me check my schedule."

They went back and forth a few times and agreed on a date. Anastasia informed her there would also be a camera crew for the online digital version and social media pages. By the time Raven hung up the phone, her hands shook.

Good Food & Fine Spirits magazine.

It was big-time. A feature could change everything for her, and there was no way she was about to blow the opportunity of a lifetime. Squealing inside, she turned to run into the kitchen and share the news when a sudden realization halted her midstep.

The bar.

Her time had officially run out. She needed her bar restored in order to make an impression. She couldn't have pictures circulating without showing off the antique piece. And how could she keep the mismatched stools? They'd seemed funky and quirky when she opened, but now they just looked a bit sad. Wildly calculating in her mind the balance in her bank account, she decided it was a leap she needed to take sooner than later. She'd begin calling places and-

Ah, crap.

Dalton Pierce.

As if his words were hanging in front of her in a balloon from an old comic, she squeezed her eyes shut in pure misery. She could not hire him. Would not. Besides being stuck with his presence on a constant basis, she'd be surrendering and letting him win. Plus, he was still the enemy. How could she allow him to save her?