by Katy Regnery
“Right,” I say, blinking at her.
Back in Newton, I would have taken Harriet to the Capital Grille steakhouse, where we would have started our Christmas Eve meal with festive martinis, followed by a rich and creamy bisque, filet mignon, and a decadent dessert. Certainly not...nuggets.
“On second thought, I will pass on dinner,” I say, with as much politeness as I can muster.
“Okay, then.” For the first time her cheerful demeanor slips, but after a beat, her smile’s right back in place. She leans forward and lowers her voice, as though to confide secrets in me. “If you like Chinese food, Golden Buddha’s right across the parking lot.”
“Golden Buddha?”
Still whispering, she adds, “I don’t like to be disloyal, you know, to the inn. But Golden Buddha’s a little more fancy ’n here. You know, cloth napkins and real glasses. And between you ’n me, they’ve got liquor over there too.”
Practically a given that it will take quite a bit of liquor to get through the next few days, I embrace this information with gratitude.
“And,” she says, more excitement creeping into her voice, “it was featured on the Food Network. Our own Golden Buddha! You know...on TV.”
“You don’t say.”
“I wouldn’t lie about something like that. It. Was. Thrilling.” Elf Nikki leans away and resumes her normal voice. “I’ll just need a credit card to place on file, Mrs. Kringle, and then you can go get settled in.”
“Miss,” I say, taking my wallet out of my laptop bag and sliding my Platinum card across the worn countertop. “Not ‘Mrs.’...ahem, Kringle. ‘Miss.’”
She winks at me. “Maybe that’ll change this weekend, eh? You never know. People say the North Pole is magic, and I, for one, agree!”
Her enthusiasm is relentless, and I finally surrender to it, chuckling softly. “Romance isn’t on my agenda.”
“Stay positive! You could go from ‘Miss’ to ‘Mrs.’ in a blink of jolly Old St. Nick’s eye!” She slides a room contract to me. “I just need your signature here.” With a twinge of regret, I sign the paper saying I won’t burn down the place, then take my keycard from her. “You’re on the second floor. Elevator’s down the hallway to the right. When you get off, hang a left. Fourth door on the right is your room!”
“Thank you,” I say. Even if she’s a little over-the-top for my sensibilities, I have to admire Elf Nikki’s commitment to the hotel’s brand. “You’ve been very helpful.”
“Have a wonderful stay in the North Pole, Miss Kringle!” she booms as I roll my eyes suitcase away from her in search of my accommodations.
***
Golden Buddha is hopping.
I think every local in North Pole, Alaska, is there, plus their out-of-town guests, plus a few folks who decided to swoop down from Fairbanks too.
And I’m pleasantly surprised by the restaurant’s festive decor.
First of all, the ceiling is tiled in traditional Chinese art on brass plates with an ornate recess in the center of the dining room that houses Asian-style chandeliers. I make my way to the bar, maneuvering around several waiting parties, and find it to be modern and updated. A black marble slab, popular in high-end bars all over the world, is complemented by maroon leather barstools, and a large gold Buddha holds court in a polished aluminum grotto over the cash register.
I luck out, arriving just as a man in a Denali Industrial Supply sweat shirt vacates his spot, and I belly-up, so to speak. My line of work has required me to sit alone at bars all over the world, and I have grown to love the way it feels to take my spot at the chrome or granite or marble slab, an anonymous patron in a sea of humanity. As soon as I sit down and cross my legs, a feeling of calm sweeps over me—my shoulders and posture relax for the first time in hours, and I take a deep breath, sighing softly with contentment.
Inspecting the bar’s offerings, I find that they’ve made the unique choice to stock red wine on the three shelves to the right of the Buddha and spirits to the left. Luckily, I’m sitting on the left.
My eyes sweep the landscape for Tito’s vodka, Hendrick’s gin, and Glenfiddich 12 whisky, my three must-haves for any bar of any size anywhere in the world. Nodding in approval, my eyes skip around the other familiar labels, absorbing them by design without having to actually read them. There are several different kinds of rum, whiskey, and tequila, in addition to liqueurs like Midori, triple sec, Chambord, Kahlua, and schnapps. This bar tends toward the sweet, but then again, most do.
“What can I get you?”
I look up to see a young, blue-eyed waitress in a blue silk Chinese blouse, her jet-black hair back parted severely in the middle and her makeup favoring a dark, Gothic style.
“A martini, please.”
“Gin or vodka?”
“Hendricks.”
“Up or on the rocks?”
“Up. Icy glass.”
“Olives or twist?”
Color me impressed. She knows her stuff.
“Olives. Please.”
“Dry, dirty, or perfect?”
Now this is what I would call a “next-level” question, because it’s asked too infrequently but perfectly addresses the drink experience you’re seeking. She’s good. Damn good.
“Dirty.”
“You got it,” she says, turning around to do her work.
I watch her add perfect measures of the ice, gin, and olive juice to the metal shaker.
Shakeshakeshake.
She grabs an icy martini glass from a spot under the bar, pours in the clear liquid, then plops in a triple olive preset on a red plastic sword.
What’s more? She presents it to me on a cocktail napkin without spilling a drop.
Honestly, it’s masterful.
“Well done,” I murmur.
She nods at me in acknowledgement of the compliment, then says, “Eleven dollars.”
“What?”
I say this way too loudly, as evidenced by the way she breaks character and grins.
“Eleven dollars,” she repeats.
Such a well-made martini would be sixteen dollars in Boston. Easy.
I slide a twenty-dollar bill onto the bar. “Keep the change.”
Her eyes light up before she swipes it away. “Will do. Keep ordering.”
Alone with my surprisingly well-made martini, I consider that although I’ve landed in an utterly obscure American hamlet at the northern ends of the earth, the fact that it comes outfitted with a very decent bar and an above-average bartender is gratifying. Raising the drink to my mouth, I sip gingerly, savoring the combination of flavors.
“So? What’s the verdict?”
Up until now, I haven’t noticed the man sitting to my left. Now that he’s facing me, I wonder if he could possibly be addressing me—he’s too good-looking to be here alone on Christmas Eve, chatting up some random out-of-town woman. I look over my shoulder to see if there’s someone else to my right to whom he’s speaking.
“You,” he says. “I’m talking to you. How’s your martini?”
“Surprisingly excellent,” I answer with a bemused grin.
He nods, laughing softly. “Brandy stumps almost everyone who orders a martini. They manage to choose between gin or vodka...most understand what she means by ‘on the rocks’...and almost everyone has a preference between olives or lemons. But what separates Brandy from a run-of-the-mill bartender—”
“—is her last question!” I finish. “Most people don’t know a dry martini from a perfect from a dirty.”
“But I notice you ordered dirty,” he says.
His voice dips just slightly as he says this, and it’s just sexy enough to make the hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention and notice.
And that’s not all I notice.
He’s handsome. So very, very handsome in his white T-shirt and dark green “arling Farms” sweat shirt. His hair is dark and short, his eyes are green, and he’s clean-shaven, which I love.
Am I ogling? Shit. I mig
ht be.
To reset the moment, I lift my drink and concentrate on taking a leisurely sip before looking up at him again. “It’s perfect. She’s good.”
“Yes,” he says. “She is.”
Aha! There we go. That’s why he’s alone in a bar on Christmas Eve. He’s not actually alone. I suspect that the young bartender, Brandy, might be his girlfriend. It’s sweet that he’s so proud of her, and I smile at him, relaxing a little. Sometimes it’s easier to enjoy a truly gorgeous man when you know he’s already taken.
“Where did she learn to make such a good martini?”
“Bartending school in Anchorage,” he says. “She was a degenerate before that.”
“I heard that!” snipes Brandy, though she doesn’t break stride in pouring out six shots of something bright yellow into six small glasses. Lemon drops.
“Am I lying?” he asks her.
“No,” she grouses, transferring the shots to a clean tray without looking up.
He chuckles softly. “We met a while back. I suggested she give bartending school a try.”
“She could easily work in a larger bar. In a bigger city.”
His eyes cool a little as he raises a lowball glass of clear liquid to his lips and sips. “But then she’d deprive the good people in North Pole of her talent.”
He doesn’t want her to leave. How sweet. Definitely her boyfriend.
“True,” I say, lifting my glass. “To Brandy, the best bartender north of the Arctic Circle.”
“Technically, we’re south, but all the same...” He grins at me, and even though he belongs to Brandy-the-bartender, a sweet shiver sluices down my spine because he’s so insanely good-looking. “I’ll drink to that.”
I replace my glass on the napkin on the bar and offer my neighbor a friendly smile, gesturing to the logo on his sweat shirt. “So what’s...‘arling Farms’?”
“‘Arling’? Oh!” He looks down at the cracked and worn letters that were ironed over a breast pocket long ago. He chuckles softly. “Arling Farms belongs to my family.”
“Ah,” I say. “Are you a...farmer, then?”
“I am,” he says, “of sorts. Potatoes.”
“I had no idea that farms could flourish this far north.”
“They can,” he says. “Root vegetables. Honey. Herbs. Flowers.”
“Fascinating,” I say, taking another sip of my very, very good martini but feeling very little of its effects. A benefit to my job? It’s made my tolerance absolutely inhuman.
“Hendricks is a good gin,” he says. “Do you have a favorite vodka?”
“I like Tito’s on a day-to-day basis.”
“But what’s your favorite?” he asks, leaning slightly closer.
“For what?”
He thinks for a moment. “A dirty martini.”
“I’d choose...Vikingfjord,” I say, almost daring him to admit he’s heard of it—which, of course, he hasn’t. It’s not well known in the United States, and I’m quite certain no one’s importing it all the way to Alaska.
He raises his eyebrows.
“What?” I ask.
“Not my favorite,” he answers. “It’s too bitter. I prefer a smoother model.”
I blink at him. “You know it?”
“Of course. From Iceland. Distilled six times.” His green eyes are the color of mint cream inside dark chocolate as they bite into mine. “Why do you like it?”
I inhale sharply, shifting slightly in my seat because I’m—Jesus, what am I? Turned on? Shit. I think I just might be! The number of men who know anything real and important about spirits and liquor is...pitifully low. The number of men in a random Chinese restaurant bar in North Pole, Alaska, who would know anything about obscure Nordic spirits? Less than zero. And yet here he is: the 0.1 percent of men appears to be my barmate.
Brandy sidles up, no doubt marking her territory. “You want another vodka, T?”
“Yeah.” He doesn’t slide his eyes away from mine, but his fingers connect with the lowball glass as he slides it back to her. “You didn’t answer my question.”
I lean away from him a touch. I don’t want Brandy to think I’m on the prowl. I’m not the sort of woman who poaches a man who’s already taken.
“Oh. Well, because it’s cheap but usable. It’s not delicious, but it’s crisp. As you noted, it’s bitter, yes. But the olive juice humbles it and cuts the edge.”
He nods slowly, the corners of his delectable mouth tilting upward. Then with his eyes still laser-locked on mine, he asks, “What’s...delicious?”
You. I clear my throat. “Excuse me?”
“You said that Vikingfjord isn’t delicious. What is? What would you sip?”
“Still talking vodkas?” I ask breathlessly, pulled into the vortex of his eyes like we’re the only two people in the world.
“We’ll get to the rest later,” he promises, leaning his elbow on the bar and angling his body toward me. “Sippable vodka. What’s your first pick?”
I take a deep breath.
My God, this conversation is sexy.
He’s taken, I remind myself.
“There’s a local one,” I say lightly, “made up here in Alaska. I’m quite fond of it lately.”
“What?” His eyes widen, and his flirtatious tone slips. Suddenly, he’s all business. “What’s it called?”
“North Star,” I say.
“Your favorite vodka is North Star?” he asks, looking surprised.
I nod. “Do you know it? Artisanal. Small batch. Craft made. Traditional methods.”
He leans toward me, ignoring Brandy when she slides his full glass back to him. “What do you like about it?”
“I think...well, obviously I’ve given it some thought, and I think it’s the water they use. Up here, in Alaska, it’s pure. The water can be cut from glaciers millions of years old, unaffected by the pollution of modern society. I don’t know how to describe it, but it’s almost”—Elf Nikki’s voice rings in my ears, People say the North Pole is magic and I, for one, agree!—“magical.”
“They have it here,” he says. “Let me buy you one.”
He’s exceptionally good-looking, but I’m not comfortable letting a strange man buy me drinks, especially when I suspect his girlfriend is right behind the bar watching us.
“No, thank you,” I say. “I’m happy with what I’ve got.”
***
Trevor
When I decided to spend Christmas Eve at the Golden Buddha, I thought I’d just get comfortably numb in a familiar spot before heading back to my huge, lonely house.
My only goal was to get out of Fairbanks and away from my parents’ house, where my twin brothers and ex-fiancée were sharing Christmas Eve dinner together. I certainly never expected to meet a woman as knowledgeable about vodka as I, let alone a woman who chooses my vodka as her favorite.
I’m so turned on by our conversation that I’m sitting on a barstool across from her with a half-hard cock throbbing behind the zipper of my jeans. And fuck me for being a fickle, owned-by-his-dick male, but our banter is so sexy, I’m not thinking straight. My eyes have flicked to her nude ring finger about ten times, and all I’m wondering is if she might be down to fuck when she finishes her martini.
Because I’ve got to have her.
At least once.
But preferably more.
“Brandy,” I call to my protégé, ignoring my neighbor’s polite refusal, “give me another. For my new friend, here.”
“Lowball? North Star?”
I nod.
“Rocks?”
“Give me a break.”
She grins at me. She knows exactly how I feel about ice diluting a good vodka. It should be served icy cold but not watered down.
“Coming right up, T.”
I met Brandy when she was a senior in high school three years ago. I was invited, with a number of other local business owners, to speak about how I started my distillery from the ground up.
After the ass
embly, she came up to talk to me about getting a job in my tasting room. Though I couldn’t hire her because she was only seventeen, it was clear she was smart, so I suggested she go to bartending school after graduation. When she said she couldn’t afford it, I said I’d pay her way if she was serious. She took me up on it, and thus a beautiful friendship was born. She’s like the kid sister I never had; I absolutely adore her.
I turn back to the woman to my right, who’s refusing a drink from me.
“It’s your favorite. I insist.”
She looks at Brandy, then back at me. “I really don’t think—”
“It’s Christmastime,” I wheedle.
She looks annoyed but gives me a clipped, business-like nod. “Fine.”
With her dark hair slicked back into the tightest bun I’ve ever seen, tortoise-shell glasses covering her eyes, and no makeup, she looked like a middle-aged librarian at first glance. Dressed sensibly for Alaska in boots, jeans, and a super unsexy, bulky Irish wool sweater that completely hid her shape and curves, I clocked her arrival, but she didn’t pique my interest.
It wasn’t until she started talking that I started eavesdropping.
I quickly found myself hanging on her every word.
And I couldn’t resist finding out if she liked the martini Brandy made for her.
Maybe it was the way she held her own as we bantered, but she got infinitely more attractive to me as we chatted.
Upon further and closer inspection, I noted the sprinkle of freckles on her nose and cheeks and the bright pink of her unpainted lips. Her eyes are a dark, deep brown behind her clunky lenses, with an attractive fringe of dark, thick eyelashes framing them.
And her smile...when she smiles at me, it feels like a gift somehow, like only a precious few are offered one, and I’m lucky enough to make the cut.
Brandy places the glass of North Star on a cocktail napkin in front of the woman. “Put it on your tab, T?”
“Thanks, Brandy.” I lift my glass. “To good vodka. Cheers.”
“I’m sorry, I can’t.” The woman sighs heavily before turning to me. “I’m really not comfortable accepting this.”
“Why not?” I ask, starting to feel as annoyed as she looks.
“It’s tacky,” she says, gesturing to Brandy with her chin. “I’m sure she minds when you buy drinks for other women.”