“Myra,” she told him, giving his hand a firm shake. She couldn’t help but smile a little more at the gesture, and gave an appreciative nod as the bartender poured her another shot of tequila.
Holding up her glass in salute, she announced, “To your gig.” Then realized she wasn’t actually sure what that meant, and added, “Whatever it is.”
She gently clinked the edge of her glass against his, careful not to spill any precious liquor before she tossed the shot back. It was smooth and warm, adding to the rest of the tequila she’d already consumed. Her cheeks were already a little tingly, and she could feel a flush starting to creep up from her chest.
With a practiced ease, she shrugged out of her jacket to alleviate some of the extra warmth, letting it drape over the edge of the bar. For extra measure, she undid another button at the top of her shirt, revealing a little more of the gray camisole she wore underneath it. The collar on the tank top was high enough to hide her scar, but an undone button was an undone button. She’d seen other men salivate over less.
“So,” she started, resting an elbow on the bar now that she was a comfortable temperature again. “What is this gig of yours? Besides well paying.”