Free Alberta Clipper by Sheena Lambert Page B

appeared out of nowhere and took it from him with a nod.  “And nothing so vulgar as a Sloe Screw, or Sex on the Beach.” 
    Christine shivered involuntarily. 
    “A mojito is fresh, but it’s not a fad,” he went on.  “It’s strong, but it’s sweet.  And it takes a bit of work.  A bit of effort.  Sugar syrup, crushing ice, all that mint to wash.” 
    They both laughed.  The barman stood before them with a questioning look at Gavan . 
    “Two mojitos please,” Christine smiled at him. 
    Gavan raised an eyebrow.  “Oh, so you think you know me now, do you?”  he asked.
    “Well, I wasn’t going to make him go to all that effort just for one drink.”  Christine clasped her hands on her lap in an effort to cover some exposed thigh.  Their knees were almost touching as they sat at the increasingly busy bar.  He reached out and took her right hand in his.  It was very deliberate, and it meant she had to lean forward slightly.  She rested her left arm on the counter so as not to fall off into his lap.  He just sat there, looking at her, holding her hand.  He didn’t seem to be embarrassed but she couldn’t help feeling so.  The fact was they had spent the night together.  Less than a week ago.  On their first date.  It felt like the proverbial elephant, creating an awkwardness that they had to stumble over.  But Gavan seemed to be very aware that they had been so intimate so fast, and he didn’t seem to find it in the least bit awkward.  He seemed like someone who wanted to take up where they had left off.  The thought suddenly crossed Christine’s mind that this could be all about getting her back to her place again.  A re-run of Saturday.  She’d allowed it before, he could safely assume she would again.  She sat up straight on her stool, pulling her hand away, just as the barman placed two bar-mats down for them.  She wasn’t sure if Gavan had noticed the flicker of doubt in her eye, but she avoided looking at him, and concentrated on the not-unremarkable mojitos which had been placed before them.
    “Wow,” she lifted her glass to him, and he reciprocated. 
    “Cheers,” he said.
    “Cheers.” 
    “So,” she wanted to get back to where they had been.  “If I am a mojito, what is she?”  She tilted her head slightly towards a tall, stylish lady in her fifties standing behind Gavan .  She had her long fingers clasped around the stem of a white wine glass, the beads of condensation threatening her painted nails.  Gavan feigned a need to look towards the front door, glancing over at the lady as he did so.
    “I’d guess a Pouilly - Fumé .”  He said quietly.  “Expensive and showy.  But actually as common as muck.”
    Christine giggled into her straw.  “And her husband?”
    This time Gavan turned in his seat to face the bar.  He cast his eyes to his right at a balding man who had one hand on the lady’s waist, the other tipping a bottle of sparkling mineral water into a tumbler of ice. 
    “That’s easy.”  Gavan removed the straw from his own glass and took a mouthful.  “If he’s an Irish man in his fifties , and he's drinking sparkling water, he's an alcoholic.”
    They both collapsed into guilty sniggering.  Christine noticed the couple looking at them, but they were saved by the maitre d’ who informed them that their table was ready.  He asked if they would prefer to finish their drinks at the bar, but they simultaneously shook their heads, and hopped down from their stools to escape.  A waitress appeared with a tray.  She took their drinks from them, following them to a table in the main dining room.
    The restaurant had high ceilings with tall windows, and the many candelabras cast shadowy light across the walls.  The animated chatter of larger parties mingled with the intimate tones of couples' conversation.  As they sat, the waitress introduced herself, told them the specials, and left them alone with the menus and their drinks.