Taste of Ms. Alexander

Chapter 8 - At His Mercy

Amanda Alexander

The drive continued in silence, leaving me alone with my thoughts and growing curiosity. Eventually, the familiar roads gave way to a quieter, more secluded area. Large houses sat tucked behind walls and gates. 

A few moments later, we pulled up to a set of automated gates. With the press of a button, they slowly swung open, revealing a winding driveway beyond. Anthony guided the jeep through and continued toward a sleek, modern one-story house nestled at the end.

When he finally parked, I found myself staring through the windshield, taking it all in.

So this was where he lived.

For some reason, that realization felt strangely intimate. Up until now, Anthony had been a collection of stolen glances, teasing remarks, and unanswered questions. Yet here I was, sitting in his driveway with an overnight bag at my feet. Maybe this was a terrible idea.

Unfortunately, it was far too late to turn back now.

Anthony remained silent, not even sparing me a glance. Instead, he stepped out and jogged around to my side. To my surprise, he opened my door and relieved me of my overnight bag before I could protest.

I hesitated for a moment before following behind him like a lost puppy.

"This your place?" I finally asked, eyeing the modern exterior.

"Iz nah one ah dem man way does hype and boast wid people shit. Way eva yuh see mi wid, is mine," he replied. 

A simple yes, would have sufficed.

He led me inside and gestured for me to sit around the kitchen island. I obeyed, watching him closely as he moved around the space with effortless confidence. He reached into the cabinets, pulling out a shaker, a muddler, a jigger, and a few other bar tools. As he opened the fridge, his muscles flexed beneath his shirt, and the sharp definition in his shoulders drew my eyes in. My gaze lingered a little longer than it should have before I mentally scolded myself. At this rate, I was becoming downright shameless.

He reappeared from the fridge with his hands full of limes, fresh mint, and strawberries.

"What are you making?" I asked, intrigued.

Anthony didn't answer.

Not even a glance in my direction. Instead, he placed the ingredients on the counter and continued working as if he hadn't heard me at all. I frowned.

Was he seriously still upset about making him wait? If so, he was being incredibly dramatic.

Anthony continued working with quiet precision, seemingly determined to ignore me. He muddled the strawberries with fresh mint and lime before adding the remaining ingredients. From the looks of it, he was making a strawberry mojito.

I found myself watching more closely than I intended.

His movements were confident, as though he'd done this hundreds of times before.  Once satisfied, he poured the mixture into two glasses, adding a finishing touch by rimming them with sliced strawberries and a sprig of mint. I watched, clearly impressed.

Where the hell did he learn this?

"Ah did do ah mixology class couple years back," he answered casually.

I blinked, realizing I had spoken my thoughts out loud. 

Heat crept into my cheeks, and I quickly looked away. Reaching for my glass, I lifted it to my lips and took a sip. The moment I did, I felt Anthony's gaze settle on me.