“You seemed so proud of yourself. I couldn’t destroy that.”
“So what do you like?”
“I really like Manhattans.”
“Seriously?” My chest tightened.
I’d been right. The Manhattan was perfect—I’d just made it for the wrong guy. I reached over and grabbed Colin’s face, pushing it into mine. If he was surprised by my sudden attack on his face, he didn’t show it, and moments later, I was in his lap.
The bartender shouted something in French. The only word I understood was “brothel.” We took that as our cue to leave.
We walked back to the hotel hand in hand, and I watched the setting sun. I’d been wrong about so many things that year. I was wrong about drinks, about Lyle, about Colin, and most importantly, me.
Mixing the perfect drink is kind of like finding the perfect guy: It’s all about the taste and presentation. Who would have thought that I’d like mine in a suit and tasting a whole lot like cinnamon?