“Martini, extra dirty, just a splash of vermouth, and six olives instead of three. That’s your order, is it not?” My fingers tighten around the stem of the glass. That’s exactly my order. I just don’t know how he knows that. I must’ve ordered it at the club at some point. Except I don’t think I have. I love an extra-dirty martini, but I don’t typically order them at work events. Because once I have one martini, I always think it’s a good idea to have a second.
