Mixed Up(28)

I'd almost forgotten that little gem.

While I wasn't entirely sure that giving her coffee was the best idea in this instance, I didn't have anything else to give her. Water wasn't going to do anything and it was too early for alcohol.

"Do you know how to make a mimosa?" Raven asked as if she were reading my mind.

"It's just champagne and orange juice," I replied slowly, tightening my grip on the coffee mug. "A child could make that."

A slow smile spread across her face. "So, make one."

"Are you sure that's a good idea?"

"No. I'm one hundred percent certain it's a dreadful idea, so that's exactly why it should happen. Good things come from bad decisions."

She was philosophical this morning.

"Uh...Okay." I, however, was a fucking idiot. "Where is the champagne and the orange juice?"

"Champagnes in the middle fridge, orange the furthest to the left."

I had to bend right down to get a good look in the fridges. Thankfully, I found both items without toppling over or causing myself some serious damage, so I was counting that as a win by the time I stood up, carton and bottle in hand.

"Champagne glasses above your head," she instructed, pointing to the wine and champagne glass rack above the bar.

I pulled down two glasses, then another two, and then more.

"Why so many?"

I swung my gaze from the glasses to her face. "Let's call it a lucky guess."

Her bright, red lips pursed before curling to one side. "In that case, you're gonna need a jug."

I laughed and grabbed one from beneath the bar. She joined me and reached for the champagne, prompting me to ask, "I thought I was doing it?"

She waved a hand as she peeled off the foil from around the cork. "You'll probably take a window out. I've seen your dad attempt to pop these things. He almost blinded the neighbor's dog once."

"The nearest dog is three houses down."

She briefly cut her gaze to me. "Exactly."

"Come on, I got this. I'm not an idiot. My dad is challenged." I took the bottle from her and positioned it to uncork it.

Her eyebrows shot up beneath her now-dry bangs, but she didn't say a word.

I slid my finger and thumb up the neck of the bottle to where the roughness of the cork was and pressed. It didn't budge, so I pressed down a little harder. Still, nothing happened.



       
         
       
        

A little harder again, and nothing.

Annoyance sparked within me. Why was it so fucking hard to pop a cork?

"You're holding it wrong." Raven folded her arms.

All that did was make her tits pop.

And all her tits popping did was make me look there.

Which was when my hand slipped, shoving the cork. It burst from the bottle with the force of a bullet, slammed into the wall an inch above the window, and bounced right back.

Raven moved quicker than I ever thought anyone could. She literally dodged the flying cork by all of an inch as it came firing back into the bar and bounced onto the floor.

For a moment, neither of us moved.

Then, she flew to the bar and kneeled down, pressing her hand against the wood.

"Goddamn it, Parker, you are so damn lucky that cork didn't break a window or dent the wood." She stood back up and took the bottle from me. "You open champagne like a savage."

"You wanted a mimosa when I was happy to make you coffee," I reminded her.

"I need the straight champagne to cope with this." She tilted the jug to a 45-degree angle and poured the champagne in it.

"Why don't you just tip it straight in?"

The withering look she gave me shrunk my balls. No fucking joke.

"The bubbles," she answered as if it were the simplest thing in the world. "Stops it fizzing over."

Right.

That was why she mixed the drinks and I cooked the food.

She emptied the last of the champagne into the glass and motioned for the orange juice. I didn't want to risk her wrath, and since we were already crunching time, I didn't want to be the one who was responsible for giving her mimosas, either.

I was already taking the wrap for the kitchen. She could take the wrap for the nine-a.m. alcohol.

No sooner had she emptied the juice into the jug and stirred it with a bright green, plastic cocktail stirrer than she was filling one glass with the mixture.

I stared as she lifted that glass to her lips, pursed them around the clear rim, and downed the thing in one.

My eyebrows shot up, but she didn't stop-and nor did her lipstick come off. She put her glass down perfectly clear and, with one hand firmly around the stem of it, poured out mimosas for every glass I'd set on the bar.