"No, it was surprisingly sweet," is what Beckett decides on saying, setting her shoulders, a few strands of hair sliding through the fingers of the hand she lifts to not-so-subtly twine around them.

She drops her hand once she realizes what she's doing, but the healthy flush in her cheeks remains. The buzz still hasn't worn off yet, and she clears her throat, fully prepared to redirect the conversation elsewhere when the next sentence just happens.

"I mean, it's not tequila, but then again, this isn't page 105, is it?"