The thing about teenagers (and indeed, toddlers) throwing fits was that they were defused simply by lacking any semblance of reaction. And a fine wine was only truly appreciated through acquisition of a palette. Jude had neither the palette, nor the reaction, he smiled at her, long and slow and utterly unfazed, even as she shucked layers until she mirrored him long enough to telegraph a threat.
Jude now. Jude didn't threaten. He didn't look like he could. Jude's width wasn't built; he wasn't thin and delicate and waifish and he didn't look like he desperately needed coddling, which Oliver could produce out of thin air and had served him well when they both needed money, and quickly. But he wasn't wide and he looked now as if he were utterly reasonable and entirely ordinary. Disappointed, in fact. He wore disappointment as easily read as if Jude were entirely open-book, which he wasn't remotely. But he looked it now, the mouth softened, and the eyebrows drew together.
"But why did you come?" Jude didn't agree, about the booze's price or the stock. He knew the woman who ran the place not well, but enough. And he wouldn't put money on her sitting in front of anything cheap and drinking it. The Cat sold at mark-up, but it was a business and it was paying the rent without needing to find other, more creative solutions and the heat was on and the music playing, and that was evidence enough it was working.
"If you don't like our booze. And you don't like our management." A long, encouraging smile. A lazy blink. "Because you could leave. Someone who wants to drink here could sit."
Jude wasn't as mild-mannered as he looked. He was, in actual fact, calculating the trajectory to the door, because hustling her out was a lot easier than it might have looked. She was solid, and she looked like she'd fight, but he put money on her fighting plain and the kind of dirty a man would get down to, but Jude wasn't bothered by that.
"Or you could buy a decent drink, stay, enjoy our ambiance." The deliberate word choice. "Or you can get barred. Your choice." He held up his hands: this was more to do with giving the out than it was to do with Dahlia herself. Not many people had to be turfed out of the bar.
"That can't possibly be the way to treat a decent liquor."