The perfect choice of drink. Traditionally, Greeks didn’t drink ouzo “dry hammer,” on an empty stomach, because its high sugar content slows the alcoholic effects until the imbiber drinks more than he should and it’s crept up on him all at once. Kind of like Portia had done with him. Her sweetness had blindsided him into believing he could trust her, and then today she’d dropped a bomb on him by accepting another date with Dillon. He couldn’t help but sneer when he thought of that guy.
Screw the traditional way of drinking ouzo. He tipped his head back and downed the entire shot of cloudy liquid. Sliding the glass back to Braden for a refill, he laughed thinking of Portia and how she’d denied their shared dream. Just like his drink, the sweet had disappeared, revealing the frozen remnants underneath. Yet that wasn’t really true. Because he’d sampled the passionate woman lurking beneath her facade and it was anything but cold. She burned hot, so hot she sizzled. He’d bet if he ran an ice cube from her lips . . . over her pebbled nipple . . . the soft curve of her belly . . . her—hell, he was getting hard thinking about it—the water would turn to vapor from the heat of her.
“She turned me down,” he finally revealed, not giving a crap what Braden thought of him. “No big deal.”
Braden took his glass and replaced it with water, thrusting a plate of food in front of him. Spoil sport. Wouldn’t even let his best friend get drunk. And after everything he’d done for him.
If it weren’t for Ryan, Braden wouldn’t have his own restaurant, or at least not one as popular. When he’d come up with the idea of opening an authentic Greek tavern, he’d had a difficult time getting a lease in a prime area. Ryan hooked him up with Uncle Alexander, who gave him a great deal on a space on Main Street. And when the liquor commission denied his application for a liquor license, Alexander made a few calls and provided his own name for the license.
Braden walked around the bar and took a seat next to him, giving him a serious look. “Since she turned you down, can I ask her out?”
Ryan’s fist shot out connecting with Braden’s jaw. His friend’s head pitched back, absorbing the blow. He didn’t return the punch, just winced and rubbed his jaw, keeping his eyes trained on Ryan.
Ryan shook out his hand. Damn, it hurt like a mother.
“No big deal, huh?” Braden grinned. “Do you punch everyone who hits on her? Because there isn’t a chance in hell men aren’t falling at her feet wherever she goes. It’s something in the Dubrovsky blood. They may be beautiful and talented, but they’re also obstinate and mouthy.”
“Portia’s not mouthy.” He frowned. “You’re talking about Viola.”
“Don’t change the subject.” Braden pointed a finger at him. “I noticed you didn’t deny the rest.”
The room dipped as the alcohol hit his bloodstream. “I didn’t punch Dillon. I wanted to, but I gave Portia an orgasm instead.”
Braden nodded as if it made perfect sense. “I approve. But I thought you hadn’t slept with her. And who the hell is Dillon?”
“Dillon,” he said, sneering, “is Jon’s nephew. Viola set them up on a double date, but I tagged along.” His brain grew fuzzy. What had Braden asked him? “While Portia and I share a bed every night because I didn’t order the mattress I said I ordered, and Portia hasn’t bothered to complain about it other than to lecture me on buying things through the Internet and urging me to file a complaint, we haven’t actually had sex. We came close last night when we shared a dream . . .” Braden’s eyebrow rose. “. . . and I woke up with her on top of me and her tongue in my mouth, but I shook her awake, which not only ended the kissing, but gave her another reason to shut me out.”
Braden remained silent for a moment, probably waiting to make sure Ryan took a breath. “She had an orgasm from the kissing?”
Should’ve known that’s what his friend would focus on. His throat parched, he took a gulp of water. “No, on the dance floor.”
“Of course,” Braden said as if it were a common occurrence. And for him, it might be. He shoved the plate of food closer to Ryan. “You’re drunk. Eat.”
Ryan picked up his fork and dove into some rice. “What can I do? I’ve done everything I can think of to get her out of my mind, but she’s invading my dreams, man. We spend all day around each other at the house. Even when we’re in different rooms, I can smell her. She smells like vanilla. Not that artificial crap, but the kind you use in your desserts . . . the real bean.” He took a bite and chewed. “We’re required to spend our time together. We sleep together. I’ve seen her naked—”