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The Test
by Tawna Fenske

Copyright © 2018 by Tawna Fenske. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

Chapter One

Lisa

“I’ll have the Barbadian Secret martini, but with Hendrick’s gin instead of the Aria, and I’d prefer the grapefruit-shishido shrub instead of the tarragon, please.”

I smile at the cocktail waitress, who nods and jots something on her notepad. “No problem.”

“I know I’m fussy,” I tell her in a half-conspiratorial, half-apologetic tone that wins more kindness from servers than my extra-generous tips. “But it’s always fabulous when you make it that way.”

She gives me a friendly wink. “Coming right up.”

“Oh, and if you have kaffir leaves,” I add, “I’d really prefer that over the lime zest garnish.”

“Jesus, Lisa.” Across the table, my sister, Cassie, rolls her eyes. “Are you ordering a cocktail or buying a luxury car?”

Our other sister, Missy, pats Cassie’s hand with a haughty expression I suspect mirrors the one I routinely throw at our younger sister. “There’s a real art to craft cocktails,” Missy informs her. “You can’t blame her for knowing exactly what she wants.”

I smile at Missy for having my back, but also at Cassie for being—well, Cassie. My polar opposite in most ways, but I love her more than Proenza Schouler’s new spring line of dresses, and that’s saying something.

I’m also determined to help the poor lamb plan her wedding. “So, Cassie,” I say as I pop one of the Driftwood Room’s famous Sizzling Forest Mushrooms into my mouth and chew. “Did you decide on the letterpress or the foil stamping for your save the date cards?”

She looks at me as though I’ve just shoved cocktail straws up my nostrils and pretended to be a walrus. “I’m a soil scientist getting married,” she says. “Not a senator sending correspondence to foreign dignitaries.”

Her expression softens almost imperceptibly, and she exchanges a look with Missy. I’d bet my favorite pair of Louboutins that our older sister just stepped on her foot under the table, and I know why.

I sigh and address the elephant in the room. “I’m fine, you two. I don’t mind wedding chit-chat. Please. It’s been six months since Gary pulled the disappearing groom act. I’m better off without him, obviously.”

“Obviously,” they chorus, Cassie sounding more convinced than Missy. There’s that look again.

I ignore it and glance toward the bar, wondering what’s taking so long for the drinks. Blocking my view of the bartender is a hulking figure in a black T-shirt, with tattoos covering both arms. I can’t see his face, but his shoulders look like he spends his spare time bench-pressing SUVs. His ass is a work of art, too, like a chiseled piece of granite fitted with well-worn denim.

“Is the limp-dicked fucker still in Arizona for that men’s retreat thing?”

I snap my attention back to Cassie, momentarily confused. “What?”

Seeing my confusion, Cassie glances toward the bar. When her gaze lands on Granite Ass, she gives a knowing smirk. “I was asking about Gary, but I like the look of anti-Gary much better.”

Missy frowns and peers around Cassie. “Anti-Gary? Oh. Oh. Wow. That guy’s huge.”

“Stop staring.” I swat at both of them as Granite Ass turns and catches me watching him. My breath snags in my throat, and it takes five full seconds for me to figure out how to look away. In that time, I’m hypnotized by the most stunning, icy-blue eyes I’ve ever seen in my life.

“Here come the drinks,” I announce in a voice that doesn’t sound like mine at all. It’s high and quivery like one of those porno girls in the videos I used to catch Gary watching. “Bottoms up, girls.”

I snatch a frosted martini glass off the tray hovering next to my head. The waitress starts to say something as I take a big gulp, then sputter.

“Guh!” I gasp. “That’s not the Barbadian Secret martini.”

The waitress stares at me like I’ve just belched in public. “I’m sorry, ma’am—that’s the order for the next table,” she says. “Yours will be here in just a second.”

Heat creeps into my cheeks, and I’m not sure if it’s from embarrassment or from the extra-strong drink.

Or the fact that everyone’s staring at me, Granite Ass included. I’m deliberately not looking, but I can feel those blue eyes drilling into the side of my head.

Determined to salvage my dignity, I offer an apologetic wave to the befuddled-looking couple at the next table. “I’m so sorry,” I say. “Your next round is on me. My apologies.”

Then I take a daintier sip of the drink, tasting it for real this time. My taste buds perk up, reveling in the icy contrast between brine and bitter. I sip again, and a fat olive stuffed with bleu cheese bumps my lip.

“What on earth is this?” I ask. “It’s amazing.”

“A dirty martini,” the waitress offers. “Extra dirty, actually.”

I sip again, entranced by the unfamiliar mix of flavors. It’s salty and sharp with tiny flecks of ice swirling in a gin mixture that smells like juniper berries. “It’s incredible.”

Missy stares at me like I’ve just announced a fondness for Cheetos. “That’s basically the opposite of what you ordered.”

Cassie smirks. “Maybe she ought to try opposites more often.”

I take another sip, considering her words. How did I never realize there was this whole other realm of cocktail possibilities? Savory instead of sweet, salty instead of fruity.

“Is this seriously the first time you’ve tried a dirty martini?” Cassie asks.

I roll my eyes and sip my new drink again. “I’ve never had a dirty martini. I’m an interior designer, not a soil scientist like you.”

It’s Missy’s turn to look perplexed. “I’m not a soil scientist, either, but even I’ve had a dirty martini.”

I sigh and set my drink down, regarding my sisters with exaggerated patience. “I’ve had plenty of martinis, as you well know. Is it really so peculiar that I’ve never tried it dirty?”

“That’s a shame.” A low male voice close to my ear makes me jump, and I turn to see Granite Ass has slid in to the seat beside me. Those icy-blue eyes bore into mine, registering some strange combination of amusement and lust with an odd hint of aggression. What’s that about?

“Sounds like that’s something you ought to remedy,” he murmurs.

The timbre of his voice makes me shiver, and I’m not sure we’re still talking about drinks. I stare at him, at a complete loss for words. He’s even bigger up close, and I wonder how he managed to move from his barstool into my space without me noticing. He’s staring like he can see right through my dress, and the thought doesn’t trouble me as much as it ought to.

I swallow and taste olive brine on the back of my tongue. Somewhere in my brain, my sister’s words echo in my head.

Maybe she ought to try opposites more often.

She’s right, dammit. I’m a thirty-one-year-old single woman whose ex-fiancé’s silk ties are still folded neatly in the dresser drawer where he left them. How the hell did I end up here?

My whole life flickers before my eyes in a grainy, ten-second film. A life filled with wine clubs and yacht parties and impeccably tasteful drapes.

Maybe every life choice I’ve made so far—drinks, dates, everything in between—has been the wrong one. Maybe my instincts are so far off-kilter that the only fix is to do the exact opposite of what my gut tells me to.

These are crazy thoughts to be having in a Portland hipster bar on a random Tuesday evening. My gut roils with a potent brew of gin, adrenaline, and lust, so trusting it right now isn’t an option.

But there’s one thing I do know.

Granite Ass is making more than my taste buds tingle.

“Well, then,” I tell him, pausing to lick my lips. “I don’t suppose you’d be the guy to teach me a thing or two about learning to like it dirty?”