More Than a Mission Read Free Page A

asked with an upward arch of her brow.
    â€œA gentleman such as myself wouldn’t dare call a lady a liar, but…” He pointed to the help wanted sign that was still posted in the front window.
    Heat rose to her cheeks, much as it had yesterday when he had caught her appreciating his backside. Definitely not good. The last thing she needed around here was someone who would be distracting her from all that she had to do. “Mr. Rawlings—”
    He stepped to stand in front of her, held out his arms and said, “You wanted professional. So here I am.”
    â€œI did say that, only—”
    â€œI know my way around a bar,” he jumped in.
    â€œI suspected as much, but—”
    â€œWhat have you got to lose?” he interrupted yet again.
    Elizabeth gripped the handle of her gathering basket tightly and examined him once more. Dressed like this, she could definitely see him preparing drinks for her patrons. Heck, he was dressed nicely enough to be one of her patrons. But could he mix a mean cocktail?
    â€œA martini,” she said out loud.
    â€œExcuse me?” he asked, clearly confused.
    â€œHow do you make a martini?” she clarified and nervously swung the basket back and forth a bit, hoping for failure on his part.
    He raised one sunbleached eyebrow as if to say, Aw, come on. Try something harder. Then he rattled off, “One and a half ounces of gin. Dash of dry vermouth.” He paused, smiled and said, “Shaken, not stirred.”
    She had to chuckle at his imitation of Sean Connery because it was dead-on. “Too easy. How about a…” She hesitated, trying to think of one of the more unusual drinks with which she was familiar. “A B-52,” she finally said and watched him squirm, but not for long.
    â€œThe drink, right, and not the alternative band from Athens, Georgia?”
    Smiling, she confirmed, “Right. The drink.”
    â€œOne ounce each of Bailey’s Irish Cream, Kahlua and Grand Marnier.” He picked up his hands, mimicked the shaking, and she got the rest of the recipe. Not to mention getting the very appealing way the man could move his hips.
    Fresh heat came to her face. She gave it one last try to attempt to convince herself it was insane to consider him for the job. “You’ll never get this one—Mexican Sunset.”
    He grinned. It was an appealing little-boy kind of grin. A gotcha grin. “Too easy. Bottle of beer, preferably Corona, garnished with a slice of lime and less a sip so you can add the sloe gin. I’m assuming the sloe gin is homemade. I understand there’s a great abundance after the fall harvest of the local blackthorn bushes.”
    He knew his stuff. She had to give him that. “You don’t strike me as the type that will stay for long,” she said, firing the last salvo she had held in reserve.
    He hesitated since she had scored a direct hit and the grin ran away from his face as he grew serious. “You’re right. Dad was an army man so I’m used to a wandering kind of life.”
    â€œI know the type,” she interjected, thinking of her sister Dani and all her travels.
    â€œSo you understand, then. But the way I see it, you need a bartender and I’m here. Not going anywhere for a while and I promise that when I do decide to go, because it will happen, that I’ll give you plenty of time to find someone else before I run.”
    Promises. She knew just how often they got broken. But he had a point—she needed a bartender. The past few nights had been horrendous as she tried to cook while at the same time helping out the wait staff with the drinks. “It doesn’t pay much, but tips are generally good. If you get here by five, dinner’s included. You can start tomorrow.”
    He smiled and held out his hand to seal the deal. She hesitated before she shook it, and he said, “To new adventures.”
    â€œI’m not the