Amelia says, “What do you recommend?”
Cornbread looks deeply moved by the question. “Bourbon.”
I open my eyes. “Specific as always.”
He ignores me. “But if you ain’t a regular drinker, I’ll make you a Firestarter. Bourbon, peach, lemon, little honey, little sin. Goes down sweet, stands up mean.”
Amelia hesitates.
I lean in. “You don’t have to drink.”
“I know.”
“Mean it.”
“I said I know.” She looks at Cornbread. “I’ll try one.”
Cornbread grins. “One Firestarter.”
“For me, too,” I say.
He looks offended. “You drink that sweet thing?”
“Tonight I do.”
Amelia glances at me. “Why?”
“So you ain’t the only one coughing on bourbon in front of witnesses.”
Her expression changes.
Soft again.
Damn it.
Cornbread makes the drinks with surprising skill for a man who once tried to open a wine bottle with a pocketknife and prayer. He slides hers across first. She picks it up carefully. The glass is cold, amber-pink, with a lemon peel hooked on the rim.
She sniffs it.
“Don’t inhale it like medicine,” I say.
She gives me a look and takes a sip.
Her eyes water immediately.
Cornbread roars with laughter.
I glare at him.
She coughs once, presses a hand to her chest, and says, “That isn’t sweet. That is a trap in a glass.”
Cornbread looks proud. “Best review I got all week.”
She tries it again.
This time, she doesn’t cough.
This time, her shoulders drop a little.