What's Your Pleasure?

Excerpt From: What's Your Pleasure

Butterballs Shot

1 ½ shots butterscotch schnapps

½ shot coffee liqueur

Serve in a double shot glass. Can be mixed, but better if layered with schnapps first, then top with the coffee.

Vincent ran his hand through his brown hair and sighed. He had been sitting at his desk for two hours trying to balance the books, but no matter how many times he crunched the numbers, they kept coming up short. What he needed to save Hot Shots was nothing short of a damned miracle. Flexing his broad shoulders, Vincent decided he could use another cup of coffee.

Pushing open his office door, he entered his bar and glanced around. At 10:00 in the morning, the place was closed for business, but he still felt a rush a pride as he glanced around the establishment. He’d purchased Hot Shots in the historic Soulard area of St. Louis ten years ago in an act of desperation. Despite his high paying position as the head accountant at a large St. Louis-based company, the stress of corporate life had been slowly killing him. At the age of thirty-four, he had been diagnosed with high blood pressure and suffered an ulcer. Six months after the diagnosis, he’d quit his job and invested a good chunk of his savings in this bar. Up until recently, he’d been turning an easy profit, but since the recent recession, fewer and fewer patrons frequented the once popular night spot. At least his business was still open. Many area businesses had been forced to close their doors.

He poured himself another cup of strong coffee and heard a knocking on the front door.

Turning quickly around, he almost choked on the hot liquid. Standing just outside was perhaps the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. She was a petite little thing, couldn’t be more than five foot two, he estimated. Short, white-blonde hair framed her pixie face. He could easily tell that her small breasts rested free of undergarments beneath a light pink T-shirt. Grinning, he set down his coffee mug and walked to the door.

“Can I help you?” he asked.

“You need help?” she quickly countered.

For a moment, Vincent thought the girl was nuts. What was she talking about? Apparently, his thoughts must have shown on his face because she pointed to the sign in the window.

“A bartender?” she continued. “Your sign says you need a bartender.”

“Oh,” Vincent said, remembering he’d placed the Help Wanted sign only that morning. Last night, his bartender had casually announced she was pregnant and would no longer work in such a raunchy establishment as Hot Shots. So maybe the bar was a bit dusty and the furnishings old, but to call it raunchy was simply an insult. Vincent preferred to think of the stained wood floors, the names carved into the tables and the fading paint on the walls as character.

“Y-yeah,” he stammered, hoping desperately he didn’t sound as stupid as he felt. “I just put the sign out there. Won’t you come in?”

“Thanks. So, what do you need to know about me?” she asked.

What do you look like naked? Vincent shook his head slightly, trying to rid himself of that rude, but legitimate, question.

“Why don’t you have a seat and we’ll chat. Would you like some coffee?” He indicated a tall table.

“Yes, please. Black.”

Vincent nodded, walked behind the bar and poured a second mug full of the steaming liquid.

“You sure? I make it pretty strong,” he warned.

She turned deep green eyes to him and, without blinking, said, “I like it strong.”

Vincent damn near swallowed his own tongue.

Okay, don’t blow this, he thought. You need a bartender, not a quick roll in the hay. Think with the big head on top.

Forcing himself to look at her eyes, not her boobs, he handed her the steaming mug and leaned his elbows on the bar.

“Let’s start with the basics. I’m Vincent Milo, owner of Hot Shots,” he began, and he held out his hand.

“Josephine Dunes,” she answered, grasping it firmly.