More Than a Hotline Fling

-23-

Juneau's POV

I've created a monster. Two monsters.

Damian's going to kill me.

"Ohhh... come to Memaw," Esther cooed out, her red-coffined fingernails wrapping around Adam's extended glass.

From shoulder distance, apple and pear cut through an acidic citrus mix in an undertow in a lazy river. My nostrils twitching, I couldn't place the other ingredients. The beautiful sea blue-green color also threw me off, so I passed on Adam's offered drinks as we entered his and Vaughn's condo.

Back to its white, dickless state, I paused at a new set of framed photographs hung in the front hall. My hands fisted the ends of my scarf, pulling the warm flannel into the back of my neck.

"Someone's inspired too much by Bill Cunningham," Adam's deep voice, the perfect infusion of a strained rasp that nutted all his clients, hit my ear. "Knew you'd like them."

Before I asked who Bill Cunningham was, my eyes drank in the black and white photographs. The street-level pictures showcased... the simple view from the front of their building. A woman pushed a baby in a stroller, an older couple walked hand-in-hand, and a man carried white plastic restaurant bags. Under a somber gray sky, the dipped-down chins, black coats, and hats hinted they were taken recently.

The corners of my mouth curved up at the beauty Vaughn captured in simplistic New York City street life. "I love them. Where is Vaughn?"

"Italy." The sighed response turned me to Adam, who shoved another glass in my face. "Venice. Before you ask, he's reviewed all the options and I have carte blanche to narrow them down."

"Oh..." The news slumped my chest. While I knew nothing about wedding planning details past what Adam shared at lunch, I assumed it was more fun done together.

Downfall of dating an in-demand photographer, I guess.

"You look extra cute today, Adam."

My eyes skimmed over his blue oxford shirt, drawing out the blue in his eyes. It was tucked into tan khakis that clung to his legs. The level of poof in his hair was award-winning, rendering mine brown, wet noodles in comparison. The pink glow on his cheeks suggested he'd sampled the drinks he offered up on a silver tray.

Of course he sampled them. The man would know if a sugar grain was off.

"I look extra cute every day," lightness returned to Adam's voice, along with the twinkle in his eyes. "Vaughn's on point for the honeymoon. Take the drink before my wrist cramps, Junebug."

'Mixologist' sat atop Adam's pre-Wet Dreams resume. Working at dozens of Hell's Kitchen bars, the man had more drink recipes than I did hairs on my head. The sea blue-green color intensified when Adam passed a glass under my nose.

"Hang on. Let me get my coat off before you get me all loopy... at ten am." I stripped off my coat and hat, trailing my fingers through my hair before taking his outstretched glass. Unlike the Prosecco, I couldn't place the fruit juice and sniffed my champagne glass up close. Sweet and tart filled my nose, which I wrinkled up at Adam.

"Pineapple?"

"And about five more ingredients." He smirked. "Mermaid mimosas."

"Which is..." My lips hovered over the rim of the glass, a silent admission that I learned my lesson blindly drinking Adam's concoctions.

Poor Damian. True love is winding someone's hair back while they pray to the porcelain gods.

"Delicious," Emma offered, returning her mom's empty glass to Adam. "Slow down, Ma. I ain't carrying you home."