Blue neon reflected off the man's sunglasses as he walked into the bar. He surveilled the room, tucking a cell phone into the pocket of his leather jacket as the door slid into its frame, kissing the heel of his boots. I pegged him for an off-duty cop, maybe searching for an unassuming joint where nobody knew him.

His strides turned purposeful as he made his way to the last stool at the bar, nearest the bathrooms. Based on his baby-smooth chin, he likely didn't suffer from age-related bladder issues, but he hadn't taken off his glasses yet. Eyes were always the tell.

I gave him time to settle in before starting my approach. If my cursory reading was correct, he enjoyed his drinks neat. Nothing too fancy. Medium grade whiskey. No . . . bourbon—more patriotic. The other potential was a domestic draught.

"What's your pleasure?" I asked.

He tipped his shades up to rest on his forehead, and the eyes that met mine could have stopped time; hazel swirled with stormy grey, like a galaxy twinkling with moody stars. I'd seen a lot of eyes in my day, but I'd never been star-struck by them.

"Why don't you pour me what you think I'd like. I expect you've already made your guess."

A smartass, huh? I was feeling better about my initial assessment of his profession. "Are you sure about that? If I get it wrong, you'll still have to pay for it."

The corner of his mouth lifted, and I traced the curve of his lips, imagining. "I have faith in you."

"My job is to serve." I offered a sideways smile, giving him a taste of his own medicine, but I might have been out of my depth here.

I walked to our draught selections, catching him watching me in the backbar mirror. I couldn't picture him ordering anything we had on tap. Something about his unapologetic attitude told me he didn't like things watered down.

I made for the shelf of bourbons, feeling more confident, but I refused to cheat and glance back for guidance. I chose a call we sold a lot of. Something with a bite that wouldn't hurt the next morning. Pulling a glass from the rack, I inspected it for spots. If I got this wrong, at least I could make it look good.

Ignoring the ice, I poured out two fingers, inhaling the sharp vapor as I walked back with his prize. His smirk told me I had gotten it wrong. Damn.

"I guess I misread you," I said, setting the glass on the bar.

"Why do you say that?"

"Your smirk."

"Are you sure you didn't just misread my smirk?" He lifted the glass to his mouth and let the drink slide between his lips. Then he held the glass up, using the neon to reflect light through the amber liquid. "It's lighter than my usual, but in a good way. You have a gift."

"So, right liquor, wrong brand?"

He shrugged, swirling the bourbon before taking another sip. The guy was enjoying himself at my expense . . . and getting away with it.

"Well, I owe you a pour of the right stuff. So, what's your pleasure?"

He lifted one brow, giving me another glimpse into those mysterious eyes. "We can revisit that when I'm done with this pour. You're being summoned." He jutted his chin down the bar where one of my regulars, Carol, was waving her empty beer bottle at me.

Feeling giddy at our borderline flirtation, I left him to nurse his drink and stopped by the beer cooler to dig out a Corona, the preferred brand of our beachside clientele. Carol was our best customer. She could put away a six pack in under an hour without being challenged. I chinked off the lid, wedged a slice of lime into the neck, and walked it over to her.

"Looks like you've got a live one." She winked without a hint of subtlety, which wasn't her style anyway. "Are those green peepers I see?"

"Hazel, I think."

"Sweet Jesus. I love me some hazel eyes." She jabbed the lime into the bottle with a slender finger and licked her manicured nail. Then she drained half the bottle.

"Didn't your ex, Randy, have hazel eyes?" I asked.

"He wished. They were faded brown at best, and that's because he was pushing sixty. So, what are you going to do with Mr. Hazel Eyes? He seems interested."

"Who says I'm going to do anything with him? My guess is he's a cop, and I don't want him digging."

She laughed as she put away another quarter of her beer. "That's never stopped you before. Wasn't Scott a DA for the city?" One thing about Carol, she loved to exaggerate.

"Scott was a defense lawyer. And our relationship was purely sexual."

"Aren't they all?" Carol's penciled brows disappeared under her Marilyn Monroe wig. "Did you get the order right for this maybe a cop, hazel-eyed hunk?"

I sighed. "No. I got the liquor right but not the brand."

"That's nothing to be ashamed of. You're the best drink reader I've ever met. And I've spent a lot of time in bars."

This was not news to me. Carol had traveled the world as a Vogue model, and she loved to share stories about her wild, uninhibited youth. Most people thought she was lying. I had done the research and confirmed most of it was true. Carol was a total knockout back in her heyday.

"Drink reader is not a skill anyone wants to aspire to," I told her. "A few more weeks and I'll be following my dream."

Two people entered the bar, and I excused myself to wield my amazing drink reading skills on them. Despite the age difference, they had that couple vibe. Most of the local property owners fell into the wealthy, older, white male category. If they weren't married to their high school sweetheart, they were sporting a trophy wife who could pose as their daughter, if necessary.

"What's your pleasure?"

My greeting had the couple giggling as they exchanged an indecent kiss involving a lot of tongue. While I waited, I glanced at Mr. Hazel Eyes. If I read his head shake correctly, he thought they needed to get a room too.

"I'll have a dry Sapphire martini, two olives," said the man. In truth, I had him down as a single malt scotch drinker.

"And I'd like a Captain and Coke, single short, no lime." The woman placed her order with confidence, and I couldn't help admiring her. Whether or not she was in love with the well-dressed, geriatric bastard, she knew what she wanted and wasn't afraid to ask for it.

"Coming right up."

While I mixed the lovers their drinks, I glanced at the level of bourbon left in my mystery man's glass. He had nearly finished the pour, which either meant he was trying to be polite, or he wanted to get through the drink so I would hurry back and talk to him. Or maybe he just wanted to get soused.

I landed two perfectly mixed drinks in front of the googly-eyed couple and returned to check on him. "If you're suffering through that, I can pour what you want and cut you a break on the cost."

The smirk returned. "What makes you think I'm not enjoying myself? Like I said, you have a gift."

"Alright. I just don't want my customers to leave unhappy."

"Even if my drinks were shit, I wouldn't leave unhappy." He saluted me and downed the remnants of his glass. "Before we go any further, I want you to tell me what you thought those two lovebirds would order before they sat down."

I glanced back at the couple as they whispered into each other's ears. I was pretty sure the topic was x-rated. "I thought the guy would order a Scotch. Glenfiddich, probably. But he ordered a dry Sapphire martini. For the woman, I figured she'd go with something easy on the palate, like a Cosmo. Bacardi and Coke came in second. She ordered a Captain and Coke. I guess I'm off my game tonight."

"Not at all. I made a similar assessment when they walked in. I expect he ordered the martini so he wouldn't intimidate his date."

"Do you think they're on a date?" We pretended to be engaged in conversation as we spied on the couple.

"Oh yeah. She's trying to determine how long he has to live. Whereas he's having the time of his life as he tests the efficacy of Viagra."

I busted into a belly laugh that had everyone at the bar looking at me. This guy didn't hold back. The most dangerous kind. "I think you're right. I see it all the time, but I try not to judge. Everyone deserves to be happy."

"On that note, I'd love a pour of Makers. One cube of ice, please."

"Damn. I got the ice wrong, too? Excuse me while I put a bag over my head."

He chuckled, which didn't come across as condescending. Maybe because his eyes never left my face. "You could have poured me a chardonnay and I would have enjoyed it."

I felt my cheeks heat. This guy had skills. "I've never missed by that much. Do you even drink wine?"

"That depends on who I'm drinking with. Do you drink wine?"

"I'm not much of a beer and wine gal."

"Let me guess." He raised his hand to stop me from explaining further, although I hadn't intended to go into detail. "You're drink of choice is..." While he tried to figure me out, I excused myself to pour his drink. A small part of me hoped he would get it right. Would it validate the connection we were making? Or was he just another hot guy with the ability to charm me out of my pants?

When I returned, he graced me with a smile that had my girl parts clenching. "Gin. You like gin and tonic with at least two lime wedges but no more than three."

My insides felt like they'd come unglued, and all I could do was stare across the bar. Nobody had ever guessed my drink of choice. And the bit with the limes was next level. "Carol put you up to this, didn't she?"

"Who's Carol?"

I gestured down the bar at my retired model friend who had drained her beer and was patiently waiting for another. "She's a regular, and she gets bored."

"Oh. She's been giving me the look since I sat down." He smiled at Carol and her eyes went wide.

"Be careful. You're just her type."

He lifted his glass and took a drink. "What makes me her type?"

His question had me stumped. I'd just been playing around. "It's the eyes, I think. She's a fan of hazel."

His expression darkened, taking the mood down a notch. He actually looked annoyed. "They're a gift and a curse. I suppose that's all you noticed." He locked me in place with those cursed eyes, and I was forced to revisit our entire exchange.

"No. If you remember, I read your drink order before you even sat down."

"I wasn't aware you had pegged me so quickly. I guess I'm an open book."

"I doubt very much that you're an open book. I didn't get your drink order right."

"But you were damned close."

"Well, it wasn't the eyes that gave it away. They were more of a distraction, really."

He shrugged and looked past me at the television broadcasting sports news.

"I'm sorry. Did I insult you?"

"It's fine. You didn't mean to." He spoke to the TV.

"Please, tell me what I did. I never want my customers to feel insulted."

His attention swiveled back to me. "It would be nice, for a change, if women didn't make their assessments based on my eyes. I'm not that deep."

Okay. This guy was carrying around some baggage. But weren't we all?

"I know just how you feel. Ever since I grew tits, that's the first thing guys see. The fact that I'm about to finish my master's degree only seems to scare them off."

He took a sip to hide his grin. "That's not the first thing I noticed about you. Do I get points for that?" Was he pulling my chain? Did I believe him? Was he expecting an answer? "I'm sorry," he said. "I'm an ass. But that doesn't usually come across until the second or third date."

"Second or third date? Or second or third drink?"

He chuckled low and throaty. "I don't need alcohol to be an ass. I credit that handy trait to my dad."

"Credit and blame smell the same." I left him with my bartender's wit and served Carol another Corona.

"How's it going with Mr. Hazel Eyes?" she asked.

"Don't let him hear you say that. He's sensitive about his eye color."

"What kind of bullshit is that?"

"The kind that develops over time."

"He sounds like a freak."

"I'm pretty sure he's harmless. Just a little extra."

"You gonna pursue Mr. Extra?"

"We'll see."

Jill arrived for her shift, and Carol filled her in while I checked on the lovebirds. I took care of a drink order for table two next to the stage as they waited for Curtis and his bandmates to set up for their first set. When I returned to check on my bourbon drinking friend, he was ready with more questions.

"You been working here a while?"

"Since I was twenty-one."

"How long is that, then?" His brows lifted as he fingered his glass, spinning it slowly on the counter. Subtlety was not Mr. Extra's strong suit.

"Six years. Since we're asking personal questions, what do you do for a living?"

"I'm a commercial real estate scout. I'm scoping out the area for potential restaurant properties on the beach."

"Sounds like an interesting job. Where's home for you?"

"Atlanta."

Ah. It made sense now. This guy smelled like the city. He was probably staying at the Four Seasons or some high-end ocean view rental. "I almost went to school in Georgia, but the out-of-state tuition was a deal breaker."

"I feel your pain. I'm still paying off my student loans. A couple more jobs like this though and I'll be debt free."

"Sweet. Not many people can say that."

"It's something I learned from my dad. He says to stay in debt long enough to prove your worth. That, and the asshole bit." He took a pull from his drink, and I stared at him a moment, trying to recall the last time I'd talked to an honest man.

"Good advice . . . the debt part, I mean."

"It's been known to happen." He caught me staring, and I grabbed a rag, pretending to find a spot on the bar. If I played my cards right, I'd have Mr. Extra served on a platter and finish up before he turned into an asshole.

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AUTHOR'S NOTE: I slipped my drink of choice into this chapter. Can anyone guess which one it is?