Carrie slides the whiskey to him, and he thanks her, sliding a black card across the bar back to her. “Put her other drinks on here. Keep the previous payment as a tip. And a fresh glass, if she wants,” Rowan says. Something about it is undeniably hot in a way that doesn’t usually do it for me. The smoothness of the card slide, not only insisting on paying for my next drink, with the assumption I’ll be enjoying it with him, but my previous ones as well.
