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Summary
“Flattering your bartender is almost cliche, sweetheart. Especially when it’s a pot-calling-the-kettle-black situation like what we’ve got going here,” he says as he motions between them with his index finger. “But I’m not immune, especially when it's a sweet thing as pretty as you doing the flattering,” Steve says with a smirk. “So, what’ll it be?”
“Oh! Uh … whiskey please,” the young man says with false bravado. It makes Steve smile. He’s fucking adorable, this one. Steve is willing to bet that whiskey has never crossed this kid’s lips.
“Whiskey, huh? That’s not terribly specific. What kind of whiskey? And how do you want it?”
“How do I … want it?”
“Sure. Like … rocks? Neat? You want a shot?”
“Oh! Sorry again. Neat, please. On the rocks.”
’Fucking delightful,’ Steve thinks as he uses every ounce of self control to keep from laughing right in this poor misguided kid’s face.