The Wild One by Gemma Burgess Page A

surprise.
    â€œMuddling isn’t funny. Muddling is serious. Now, add the whiskey, squeeze the orange … voilà. Taste.”
    â€œOkay.” I cough helplessly. It’s disgusting. “Um, a little strong.”
    â€œYou’ll learn to love it.” He mixes another in silence, while I look on and try to learn. “Try this. Rob Roy. Scotch, sweet vermouth, a little Angostura bitters, and a cherry.”
    â€œI love maraschino cherries!” I take a big slurp and immediately spit it right back into the glass. “Urgh! That’s even more disgusting than the Old-Fashioned!”
    Joe cracks up.
    I am mortified.
    â€œOh, my God. I’m so sorry, that was just, um, automatic, I, um…” I’m babbling and I can’t stop, shut up, Coco, shut up.
    â€œYou might like the next one better. A Whiskey Smash. Fresh mint, a quarter of a lemon, and simple syrup. Smush them down—”
    â€œâ€”is that a technical bartending term for anything smashed? ‘Smush’?”
    â€œYes, smartypants, it is a highly technical term. You need to smush before you smash.”
    I giggle and hiccup at the same time.
    Joe glances at me. “Are you langers already? You must be. I wasn’t that funny … Strain, add whiskey, ice, voilà. Drink it.”
    I pick up the glass and take a long swig. It’s very light and refreshing to gulp, and before I know it, I’ve drunk almost the whole thing.
    â€œThat’s my favorite.” I feel so light-headed and giggly. Drunk! At work! I am wild. According to Pia, anyway.
    Joe holds up two limes. “I think you’ll like the next one the most. It’s a Rickey. Squeeze all the juice from both limes into the glass, add ice, whiskey, club soda, and … voilà!” He hands it over, and I take a sip.
    â€œNope, I like the Whiskey Smash more.” I hand back the Rickey and pick up what’s left of the Smash. “Yummy. Smash.”
    â€œI think you just like saying ‘smash,’” says Joe.
    â€œNo, no, I like the mint. I grow mint in an herb planter in my kitchen. I like herbs.”
    â€œ Erbs? ” Joe takes a slug of the unloved Rob Roy. “In Ireland we pronounce the ‘h.’ Herb. ”
    â€œHerb? That’s an old guy’s name.” My giggles are interrupted by hiccups. And then I start giggling again.
    â€œYou are langers.” He smacks himself on the forehead. “Bad Joe. Bad. All right, make yourself another one. Go on. You’re smart, you can do it. I’ll watch.”
    I try to control my giggles long enough to make a Whiskey Smash. Calm down, Coco. I love the way Joe doesn’t seem to take anything too seriously. And I like the way he said I was smart. For some reason, people thinking I’m smart makes me feel smart, and people thinking I’m dumb encourages me to make stupid mistakes. I wonder if that’s normal.
    â€œWhy don’t we do bar snacks?” I ask as I muddle the sugar and mint.
    â€œNo kitchen,” Joe says. “I tried to convince Gary to get a popcorn machine, but he refused.”
    â€œThat is an amazing idea!” I say. “I love popcorn. I put sea salt and dark chocolate chips on mine.”
    â€œWhat is sea salt, anyway?” says Joe. “I never heard of sea salt before about six years ago, did you? I mean, what did everyone put on their locally sourced hand-cut fries before sea salt was invented?”
    â€œI think the other kind is called table salt,” I say.
    â€œ Salt made from tables ?!”
    I don’t think I’ve ever laughed this much around a guy. I can’t tell if it’s the Irish accent or the booze. Probably a little of both.
    At that moment, an older guy walks in, and I can tell by the disinterested way he takes a seat at the bar that he’s not here for a drink. Joe, suddenly nervous, quickly clears away the detritus from our cocktails and