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“Draft beer? Seriously?” he raised an eyebrow in her direction as he bent down to pull a chilled glass from the refrigerator hidden below the bar. Rey tried not to roll her eyes at the bartender. She supposed the pretentious hipster attitude came with the pretentious hipster bar.
She used his moment of distraction to sneak a furtive look around the upscale speakeasy Poe had chosen. The a dark wooden bar ran along the wall of the long, narrow space, and a latticework of thick wooden shelves scaled the wall to display the obscure and likely pricey liquors. Industrial feeling light fixture that ran the length of the bar and dotted every other seat in a pool of light. A quick perusal of the cocktail menu confirmed her suspicions, eye flitting to unfamiliar words like kummel, armagnac, shiso, and batavia arrack. No prices were listed for cocktails, but since the cheapest glass of wine was $23, she had a sneaking suspicion she couldn’t afford one.
As he straightened up behind the counter, she noticed the way a few wisps of hair escaped his bun and cut across his face, his whiskey colored eyes hidden behind thick rimmed black glasses. His large fingers and broad palm delicately wrapped around the tap handle, the other hand tilting the glass just so to avoid excess foam. The corded muscles of his forearm flexed under precisely rolled sleeves and tensed as he stopped the pour. He whipped a drink napkin from the stack, aligned it at a perfect right angle to the edge of the bar and placed the glass exactly centered on it.
“So,” he started conversationally, keeping his eyes fixed to the well he was tidying, “who are you waiting for?” He chewed on the inside of his lip and straightened the bitters dasher for the second time.
She raised an eyebrow back at him and took a sip of her beer.
“Oh come on,” he chided, glancing up from his task. “There’s no way you came to one of the highest rated cocktail bars in New York just for a beer. Who are you meeting?”
“Reybae!” Poe stood behind her bar stool, wrapped his arms around her shoulders, and planted a smooch on top of her highest hair bun. His rakishly curled hair and neatly tailored suit looked right at home amongst the other patrons’ suspenders and owlishly framed glasses.
“Poepurri!” she winced, patting one of the arms wrapped around her affectionately. “For the last time, tone it down on the cologne. My eyes are watering!”
“Are you sure you aren’t just overjoyed to see me?” He hopped onto the stool next to her and filched an olive from the dish in front of the bartender.
“Dameron, do that again and you’re losing a finger,” Mr. Artisanal Asshole grunted, eyes narrowed at Poe and hand inching toward the paring knife he had been deftly slicing blood oranges with.
“Don’t make me call your mom, Solo,” Poe said with a little edge in his voice.
“You might as well. It’s not like we talk these days.” He gave an indifferent little shrug with one shoulder and turned to adjust the bottles on display on the shelf behind him. “What do you want?”
“The only thing I’ve ever ordered from you.” Poe grinned.
“How many times have we been through this? A michelada is not a cocktail!” Slamming a lime and a bottle of hot sauce onto the counter, he continued, “I make cocktails. This is a cocktail bar. A world class cocktail bar, in fact. In the future, order. A damn. Cocktail.”
Turning from the fuming bartender shaking Worcestershire sauce into a glass like it owed him money, Poe’s eyes landed on the perfectly poured pint sitting exactly in front of Rey. “She got a beer! A michelada is at least a mixed drink. I bet you didn’t give her this much trouble!”
“Almost,” she mumbled.
“Ignore Ben,” Poe told her out of the corner of his mouth, holding the bartender’s glare. “He’s sure the only thing worth drinking comes out of that shaker in front of him.”
“Why can’t you two just order a cocktail like normal people? I can see why you are together though. Stubborn.”
“I’m not his- He and I aren’t- Stubborn?!” she exclaimed. “First of all, calling someone stubborn is rich, coming from you.” At this, Poe sat back against the barstool, content to watch Rey give Ben the dressing down he knew she was capable of. He may dress sharp, but her tongue was sharper. “You spend so much time trying to elevate drinks,” she said in a mockingly nasal voice, “that you don’t allow for what people actually want. I enjoy a cold beer and there’s no way you could make any cocktail $30 good!”
“Clearly a good portion of NYC disagrees with you! My entire business is built on making cocktails “$30 good”!” he groused. “And it seems to be going pretty well. What would a little girl like you know about a decent cocktail anyways?” He gestured around at the bar, humming with activity even at lunch time. “This bar’s been internationally ranked longer than you’ve been tall enough to see over the counter. I know for a fact that I can make a drink you will gladly pay $30 for.”
“Wanna bet?” she spat, jaw clenched and brow furrowed.
“Damn right I do,” he murmured, a cocksure grin flickered across his face and he leaned forward against the counter, pale face inches from her own. “I’ll almost feel bad about winning. Almost.”
“Oh this will be good.” Poe grinned, rubbing a hand along the stubble on his chin thoughtfully. A peachy flush bloomed from the apples of Rey’s cheeks and she sat back suddenly in her chair.
“I bet you can’t make a drink that I’d pay $30 for,” she said, voice a little shaky.
“You’re on,” his voice growing deeper and a wolfish grin spreading across his face.
“If I win, you have to sit here with me and drink a beer at your precious cocktail bar, in front of everyone.” Rey folded her arms in front of her chest in a bid to look just a bit more intimidating. “And if you win-“
Here, Ben cut her off. “If I win, you’ll have dinner and a cocktail with me.”
***
She shook her head and plunked the sixth glass of the evening on the counter in front of him. Poe had gotten bored and wandered away around glass three. She and Ben kept talking about everything and nothing while he carefully constructed cocktails for her.
“One more,” he said urgently. “You have to let me try one more time and I’ll give up if you don’t like it.”
“That’s what you said about the last five,” she chuckled. A little circle of pink had started to bloom from the apples of her cheeks. She had only taken one sip of each drink, but they caught up with her quickly.
“Yeah, I did. But this time I mean it. I didn’t think it was possible to find someone who didn’t like my recipe for a blood and sand. Or any of the others to be honest.” He blew a few wisps of hair out of his eyes and started gathering ingredients again. “How do you not like old fashioneds, or a moscow mule, or even sex on the beach?”
“Trust me, Ben,” she winked, “I like sex on the beach.” The tips of his ears flushed maroon and he swiftly ducked his head. Emptying the shaker into a coupe glass with a cherry, he set the final glass down for her inspection. The pale purple drink was a bit girly, she thought, but it smelled bright and citrusy. She sipped the drink, setting it down with a quick lick of her lips.
“Ok Ben, I could see paying $30 for this. You were right.”
“Just remember that when you see where I’m taking for dinner. Maz’s is a little rough around the edges, but I’m definitely right about the food there too. Is tonight too soon?”
“Oh no, Ben Solo.” Rey smiled softly.
“No. No, no, no. You made this bet. Don’t back out of it now!” His playful smile did not belie the cold edge in his voice or the vice grip he clutched the shaker with.
“I never back down from a bet! I was just thinking that tonight won’t work, since by my count you owe me six beers first. That’s not a one night affair!”
“No, you could never be a one night affair.” He smiled and it was Rey’s turn to blush.