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"Drunk," he repeated, like he was testing the word to see if it held up.
"Yes, sir!" I nodded enthusiastically, already waving for Gavin before my brain could tell me to stop. "Not, like, fall-down wasted, obviously. Just… pleasantly loosened up. It's the first step in the sacred art of clubbing, trust me, it's basic science."
He let out a breath through his nose, eyeing the glowing bottles behind the bar, sizing them up like they were competition. "I don't usually—"
"I know, I know," I interrupted gently, instantly regretting it as interrupting Xavier Fairchild usually meant career suicide. "You don't usually do any of this. That's why we're starting small. Just one drink. Something smooth. You won't even notice it's working until the bass sounds incredible and you stop counting the profits in your head."
Just then, Gavin strolled over, wiping his hands on a bar towel, looking way too entertained for someone I had ghosted only months ago. "Trouble in paradise already?" he quipped, his eyes darting between me and Mr. Fairchild with open curiosity.
I shot him a look that I hoped said thanks for not blowing my cover and please don't make this worse. "My…uh, colleague here could use something to help him unwind," I said, gesturing grandly at Mr. Fairchild as if I were unveiling a prize on a game show. "Something sophisticated but dangerous. Your best suggestion for a guy who's probably never let loose in his life."
Gavin's lips twitched. "Sophisticated but dangerous. Got it." He turned to Mr. Fairchild with a professional nod that still felt a bit teasing. "How about an old fashioned? Rye, a bit of bitters, and an orange twist. Strong enough to make a point, classy enough to avoid feeling like you're in some dumb highschool party."
Mr. Fairchild thought about it for a moment and then nodded decisively. "Fine...one."
Gavin grinned and began pulling bottles down with a flair that came from practice. "One very effective old fashioned, coming right up."
I turned back to my boss, bouncing a little on my stool because I had to channel this nervous energy somewhere.
"See? Easy! Step one complete in T-minus sixty seconds. After this, we'll move on to step two, which is… well, I'll think of something."
Mr. Fairchild's gaze landed on me again, a glimmer of curiosity peeking through his usual reserve. "You seem surprisingly invested in this, Theodore."
I swallowed hard, of course I was, I'd probably never get an opportunity to spend time with Mr. Fairchild outside work-related stuff.
"Just doing my job, sir," I said cheerfully. "Exceptional personal assistants go above and beyond. It's in the handbook...I think."
He didn't exactly smile, Mr. Fairchild rarely did smiles on command, but the corner of his mouth softened just enough to make my stomach flip.
Gavin slid the drink over the bar with a flourish, the orange peel curling perfectly over the rim of the glass. Mr. Fairchild took it, lifted it in a small, almost mocking toast toward me, and took a measured sip.
I held my breath.
He didn't cough. Didn't grimace, he just set the glass down with a contemplative hum.
"Well?" I asked, leaning forward eagerly.
"It's… acceptable," he finally said.
That's the best I'd get from him honestly.
I beamed like he had just proclaimed it the best thing since sliced bread. "High praise. We're on our way, sir. By the end of the night, you'll be requesting songs and everything."
He arched that infuriating eyebrow again. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves."
But he took another sip.
And I tried very hard not to look as thrilled as I felt.
He placed the empty glass on the bar with that precise, deliberate motion he used for everything, from signing multimillion-dollar contracts to placing a coffee mug back on its coaster. To my absolute shock, he gave a small nod of approval.
"Not bad," he said, his low, rumbling voice somehow making even a compliment sound like a corporate verdict. "Surprisingly tolerable."
I couldn't help the huge, goofy grin that spread across my face. The man had just admitted to enjoying something fun. In a club. Willingly. It felt like I'd pulled off a cultural miracle on a UNESCO level. My earlier panic faded, replaced by this giddy, slightly reckless calm—like I was a zookeeper who'd just convinced a very grumpy lion to play with some yarn.
"See? Told you!" I said, leaning in with renewed excitement. "Now that we've broken the ice, we should absolutely try a few more. I've got favorites. Go-tos. Legendary mixes that make nights… memorable. If you're up for it, no pressure. We can stop anytime."
Xavier studied me, those gray eyes narrowing just enough to remind me he could still fire me with one email. Then he nodded again. "Lead the way, Theodore. But you're drinking too, I feel conspicuous being the only one."
I blinked, taken aback. "M–me? Oh, I—sure! Absolutely. Drinking in solidarity. Very important for team spirit."
I turned to the bar and waved Gavin over with the energy of someone who'd just been handed a blank check for mischief. Gavin strolled up, towel draped over his shoulder, looking like he was already writing the group chat story of this night.
"Two of my usual, please," I said cheerfully, completely forgetting my life of never being in this club before.
Gavin's eyebrow arched again. "The Nuclear Peach shots? You sure? They're basically jet fuel with a fruit sticker."
"Positive," I said, giving him my most innocent smile. "My boss needs the full experience."
Gavin glanced at Xavier, clearly reassessing his life choices, then shrugged and started mixing with the resigned air of someone who'd seen one too many bad decisions. A minute later he slid four shot glasses across the bar—bright, violently orange liquid glowing under the LEDs like a radioactive sunset.
I picked one up and turned to Xavier, beaming like a sommelier showcasing a rare vintage.
"This, my dear boss, is my signature favorite. Peach schnapps, vodka, a splash of something that might be illegal in three states, and just enough citrus to pretend it's healthy. It can knock a grown alpha flat in seconds. Legendary stuff."
Xavier eyed the shot like it had just insulted him. "And you drink this… regularly?"
"Uh...only on special occasions," I lied smoothly. "Or Saturday nights."
He lifted the glass, sniffed it cautiously, and raised an eyebrow so high it nearly disappeared into his hairline. "How exactly do you manage this if you don't have a high alcohol tolerance?"
I grinned wider, embodying pure mischief. "That's the fun part! I don't. One of these and I'm giggling at inanimate objects. Two and I'm convinced I'm an amazing dancer. Three and I'm usually trying to adopt a snake."
Xavier stared at me, his expression shifting into pure, comedic disbelief, like he was genuinely questioning every hiring decision that led to me sitting next to him. "You're saying you willingly consume something that impairs you that quickly?"
"Yup! Efficiency," I said, clinking my glass against his. "To unwinding!"
He paused for a split second, then echoed, "To… unwinding," and we downed them.
I savored the burn, the sweet peach explosion followed by fiery heat, letting out a satisfied "Ahhh" like it was the best thing humanity had ever invented.
Mr. Fairchild, on the other hand, flinched like he had just touched a hot stove. His face twisted in a valiant struggle against physics, lips pressed tight, eyes watering slightly, and the barest hint of a gag reflex bravely held back. It was the most human I had ever seen him, and it was hilarious.
"You good, sir?" I asked, trying not to laugh.
He cleared his throat, his voice a bit raspy. "It's… aggressive."
"Round two?" I asked brightly.
He looked at me like I had suggested skydiving without a parachute and then—I can't imagine why, he nodded. "One more."
Gavin, now fully caught up in the amusement, lined up another pair without me even having to ask. We knocked them back. I was beaming. Xavier, on the other hand, looked like he was seriously considering a quiet exit to the bathroom to contemplate life choices.
By the time the third round showed up—completely my doing, because apparently, self-preservation wasn't on the menu. Xavier's cheeks had a faint flush, his posture had relaxed a bit, and he was eyeing the empty glasses with the wary respect of someone who'd survived a small explosion.
I hopped off my stool with the buoyant energy of someone whose bloodstream was now about forty percent peach-flavored rocket fuel.
The club seemed to spin in the best way, lights blurring into happy streaks, bass pounding through my bones like a second heartbeat.
"Okay!" I announced, throwing my arms out dramatically and nearly knocking over a tray of drinks carried by a passing server. "Now that we are officially not sober, at least one of us is cheerfully buzzed and the other is heroic...we need to hit the dance floor!"