“What’s the special?”
“It’s always good. Does it matter?”
“What if I had a food allergy?” I picked at my napkin.
“Do you?”
“Do I what?” I gave him a blank look and smiled on the inside when his jaw tensed.
“Do you have a food allergy?” He spoke slowly, as if to a child.
“No.” I smiled outwardly this time.
“Do you always have to—?”
“Look at that.” Carey pointed.
I shifted in my seat to see Paolo moving through the tables with three shots with blue flames playing on their surfaces. It was a spring break throwback but in the classiest restaurant in town. Only in New Orleans.
“Oh.” My eyes widened.
Kennedy slid his hand to my leg under the table and squeezed. His warm palm sent heat snaking up my leg to my pussy. He smirked. “Don’t worry, Scarlett, it only burns for a second.”
I gripped his fingers and pried his hand away while giving him what I hoped was a stern look. My pulse raced at his touch. Two seconds before, we were jousting. Now, the way he looked at me, and nowhere else, had me clenching my thighs together to ward off the tingling sensation in my clit. It was as if Kennedy knew how to glance at me and, with nothing more than that look, tell me a litany of dirty thoughts. The worst part was, if I closed my eyes, I shared them.
Paolo set the tray down and doled out the flaming drinks. I eyed mine, not sure what to do with fully involved liquor.
“You have to blow it, Scarlett.” Kennedy smiled at me with laughter in his eyes.
My blood grew hotter than the flame and I silently counted backwards from ten to avoid stomping my heel onto his foot beneath the table. That or digging my nails into his thigh.
“This is awesome.” Carey picked up his glass.
“Blow it out first.” Paolo wagged his finger and then set about pouring the Malbec. Kennedy waved away the chance to sample it.
“Come on.” Kennedy raised his glass and I took mine. “May we never get what we deserve.”
“I’ll toast to that.” Carey laughed and clinked glasses before blowing out the flame and downing his drink.
I stared at Kennedy, who put his drink on the table as he waited for me to drink. A dare was in his eye, his posture, the tilt of his neck.
“Dick,” I said under my breath. I blew it out and tossed it back, the liquor bitter and delicious on my tongue.
Kennedy followed suit, downing his and slamming the glass on the table. “Fuck yes. Another round?”
“No,” I said at the same time as Carey said, “Yes.”
Kennedy gave me a look and jerked his chin at Carey.
Against my better judgment, I acquiesced. I didn’t factor in that I might be drunken collateral damage to my plan of getting Carey tipsy, but I wasn’t going to let the momentum go to waste. “Okay, fine, yes, another round.”
Paolo grinned and took off to the bar before returning with three more shots that we made quick work of. I’d had a small lunch, and the alcohol hit me fast. After a few minutes of Kennedy and Paolo chitchatting, my cheeks warmed and a light sweat broke out across my forehead.
“Is it hot?” I asked, and slipped my jacket off. I wore a dark blue, button-up top, the material silky against my overheated skin. Gripping my lapel, I pulled the fabric away from my neck and fanned it so air wafted down my chest.
“It is now.” Carey grinned at me.
I should have scolded him, but any words I tried to make turned into giggles.
“I love Malbec, don’t you?” Kennedy picked up his glass as Paolo set down a basket of baguette and butter.
“I’ve never had it.” Carey lifted his glass and took a sip. “Damn, it’s good.” He took an even bigger swallow.
“Scarlett. Aren’t you going to taste it?”
At that moment, I was certain that Kennedy Granade was stupid like a fox. He may have been working with me toward the goal of getting Carey drunk enough to agree to find Fluffy, but Carey wasn’t Kennedy’s only target. There may as well have been a bull’s-eye painted on my panties.
I smiled and kept my hands in my lap. “I wouldn’t want to overdo it.” Did I just slur my words a little?
“Oh, come now, Carey and I are drinking. Then again, I guess if you can’t handle it . . .”
I straightened my back and met Kennedy’s stare. “I can handle it.”
“Yeah?” He downed his glass in three big swallows. “Prove it.”
“That’s what I’m talking about. Come on, Scarlett. Show Kennedy how you’re the chick off Indiana Jones who can drink anyone under the table.” Carey grabbed a piece of bread and narrowly missed the butter before trying again. At least he was getting drunk.