“Yes. Thank you,” she whispered. He squeezed her again, then let her go.

“Good. I'm glad. I told you, communication is key,” he reminded her. She nodded and walked around to stand in front of him.

“I know, I know. I shall always listen to you, from this day forth,” she prattled on, then looked around the large room. “What's going on in here?”

Much like in the main house, the living room of the guest house had a bar built into it, though much smaller. More of a group of cupboards against a back wall. All of them were open, and the counter tops were filled with all different kinds of liquor and spirits and mixers. Sanders cleared his throat.

“The last person to stay in this house was a business associate of Jameson's. He had me fully stock the bar. I have been organizing what's left, alphabetically, and marking on the bottles were the liquid levels are,” he explained. She laughed.

“Afraid someone's gonna sneak your booze?” she questioned, walking forward and looking through the alcohol.

“No. It just makes me feel better to know,” he replied. She nodded.

“Understandable. This is impressive, Sandy, he doesn't have this much stuff in his bar. Angosturas? Lillet? You guys don't mess around when you stock up,” she commented. She heard him fidget from behind her.

“I was actually thinking about that. I wondered if you would do something for me,” he said. She turned around, surprised.

“Of course, anything. Shoot,” she told him.

“I wondered if you would make me a drink.”

Tate was shocked. Sanders didn't drink. As far as she knew, he had never drank. Along side Jameson, he had been to world famous night clubs and top-of-the-line bars and the best wineries in Europe, but he didn't drink.

“Why?” she asked. He shrugged, his eyes not meeting hers.

“I have never done it. I have been curious about it for a long time. There is no one else I would trust enough to do it with,” he replied in a bored voice. She felt all warm inside. Her? Not Jameson?

Take that, Satan.

“Sandy, you're so sweet to me. Alright! What'll it be? You are dealing with South Boston's best bartender!” she said, clapping her hands together.

“I was hoping you could suggest something. I have never done this before,” he reminded her. She laughed and turned to the cupboards, searching for shakers and glasses.

“Hmmm, let's see. Perfect drink ..., well, you look like a sexy James Bond, so how about a martini. Shaken, not stirred,” she did a crap Sean Connery impression.

“I do not look like James Bond.”

“A sexy James Bond, I said.”

It was his first time drinking, and she didn't want to get him wasted. Plus, she wasn't about to let him drink alone, and she didn't want to get drunk, either. So she made the drinks light. The martini didn't go over very well – she didn't understand the appeal, herself. So she tried a Manhattan. He informed her that it was tolerable. After that, she switched it up and made him a Mojito.

“Jameson likes Long Island Iced Teas,” Sanders commented. She raised her eyebrows.

“I'm not making you that, you'd be on the floor. How about Sex on the Beach?” she teased, winking at him. He cleared his throat and looked away.

He said it was by far his favorite. Huh, Sanders liked girly drinks. Who would've thought? She made him a Tequila Sunrise after that, but then cut him off. She could see the effects. They had been at it for a while, she had spaced them out and made him take his time, fed him pretzels and made him a sandwich. But it was still clear that he was a little toasted.

“Is it normal for your lips to be numb?” he asked, staring at the wall behind her. His speech was still clipped, but his voice was soft, his eyelids heavy. His features relaxed. Small things to a normal person, huge things for Sanders. She laughed and sank into a chair across from him, putting her feet up on an ottoman.

“Yeah, sometimes that happens to me, too. How are your toes?” she asked. He glanced down at his shiny shoes.

“Toes?”

“Mine tingle sometimes, when I drink. Fingertips, toes, lips, all that good stuff. How's your vision?” she went on. He shrugged.

“Perfect.”

“I meant,” she laughed, “are you seeing double yet? Things a little blurry?”

“No. Should they be?”

“Not necessarily. So is it everything it's cracked up to be?” she asked. He shrugged again.

“I'm not sure I see the appeal. I feel like I am stuck in slow motion. How does anyone get anything done like this?” he said, his words coming out slow. She laughed again.

“You're not supposed to get anything done. You do it to relax, have fun, be brave, whatever,” she told him.

“Brave?”

“Liquid courage. Makes you uninhibited, makes you do things you wouldn't normally do,” she explained.

“Like take a whole bottle of xanax and swim in a pool?”

He could've hit her and she would've been less shocked. She licked her lips.

“Yes, things like that,” she whispered. His eyes finally met hers, and he stared right into her.

“That's not very courageous, or brave,” he commented.

“I know. Sometimes, alcohol can make you the stupidest fucking person on the block,” she managed a laugh.

“I was very upset with you. You worried me,” he told her, his voice full of bite. Another shock.