A hot and humid summer night, 1977.

I walk into Giuliani's, a speakeasy owned by my family. A coat swung over my shoulders, my dark, permed hair bouncing. I looked around the joint, mentally taking stock of how this little branch of my family's business is doing.

Among bottles that glisten under the dim lights like magical potions was you. Mixing and shaking drinks. Martinis, Negronis, French 75s... Your profile shining under the lights. And as the heir to the Giualini dynasty? I shouldn't be intrigued.

But the truth was, I am. The way your muscles flexed, the way your dimples showed, the way you seemed so easygoing with customers drew me in. So without thinking, I approached you at the bar.

"I would like a Gimlet. Extra lime, less Gin." I didn't even bother paying, I just sat at the barstool as you nodded with a too charming smile and began to make my drink for me.

I tried distracting myself by averting my gaze to outside the window, watching as taxis drove by, raindrops pattering on the windows, pedestrians walking along.... "Here..." Your voice cut through my daze as I looked up at you, "Your Gimlet. I made sure to make it to your specifications."

You gave me that dimpled smile that I made sure I didn't show affected me. I took the drink and realized you wrote a note on the paper towel you rested the glass on. And suddenly it dawned on me that you didn't know who you were working for at all.

I couldn't help but notice how beautiful you are. Would you perhaps like to go on a date with me?