“You won’t think I’m too big a monster when you see the margaritas I also brought.”
“Pineapple flavored?” I ask as we make it to the other side of the bridge.
“Uh, yeah. Do you take me for an amateur? It’s still your favorite, isn’t it?”
I give him a simple nod, but a bit of the ice I’d formed over the years loosens in my chest. The fact that he remembered something as simple as my favorite drink after all this time . . . It shouldn’t feel like a big deal, but it does.
I look up as I trail behind him, and that’s when I see the flannel blanket at the end of the cliff, secured by a couple of large rocks. In the middle of the blanket sits two bags of tacos I recognize from a food truck we used to frequent and a large cooler.
“Can’t believeCheeky Mikestill has his food truck,” I say, feeling breathless for reasons I don’t want to admit.
“He’s grown the business, actually. He has six or seven trucks all around town now.”
“His tacos were always my favorite.”
“I know,” he says, stopping at the edge of the blanket to share a meaningful look with me.
But that look is cut short at the sound of my stomach rumbling, making us both chuckle.
Patton waves at the blanket. “Come. Let me feed and water you.”
I laugh, recalling how he always said that to me when I was PMSing, hangry, or just stressed. It was so silly and stupid, but it was . . . us.
Taking my boots off, I reluctantly climb on, something inside my head telling me this—whatever this is—could be dangerous.
I haven’t seen or talked to the man since our divorce was settled, and now, just like that, he’s back in my life out of nowhere?
It’s just for a few hours, Nisha,says the slutty, sex-starved girl inside my head. She’s the reason dreams of other hot Hollywood men turn into dreams about my ex-husband.Just live a little, bitch. Like he said, he’s not asking for forever. Not again. You can leave at any time, as long as you don’t die falling to that creek going back.
As Patton pours me a glass of margarita, I watch the tiny city lights dance like gems in the distance below us. The wind rustlesthrough the short brush and trees, lifting my hair, and for a moment, everything feels . . . exactly how it should.
Patton plants himself beside me, handing me a taco and drink. Our thighs brush, and so do our forearms, as we eat and drink, sending little goosebumps racing across my skin that have nothing to do with the breeze.
“Did you know there’s no concrete origin story for the margarita?” Patton asks, taking a sip from his glass. “There are several theories; some say it was created during the American prohibition, and some say it was created by a bartender for a showgirl who was allergic to everything but tequila.”
I smile, studying the glass in my hand.
I’m not big on drinking, or on consuming anything that will loosen my grip over myself and my surroundings, not unless it’s for a special occasion. But one taste of a margarita, and all that sense and control goes down the drain. Or rather, my throat.
“I see you’re still a book of random historical facts.”
Patton smirks. “Well, I can’t coast through life on just a pretty face.”
I laugh, even though a part of me hates that he still knows how to pull that so easily from me. “I’m pretty sure you actually could.”
Patton smiles, and I marvel at the faint color that rises to his cheeks. Even after all the fame and celebrity—literally being the face of billboards all over the world—he still doesn’t quite know how to take a compliment. It’s a glimpse into the man behind the actor, the unsure and unguarded boy I once knew.
“So,” I say, chewing the last of my taco slowly. I’ve already finished off my second margarita and am feeling the effects. “Was this what you wanted? To seduce me withCheeky Mike’s, a spectacular view, and margaritas?”
Patton taps my knee with his, taking a sip of his drink. “Is it working?”
“No,” I lie.
“Well, the night’s still young. Maybe that’ll change by margarita number three.”
“Or maybe you’ll just tell me where this is coming from, Patton. Especially after all this time.”
He shrugs, balling up his taco wrapper and tossing it into the brown bag. He secures a corner of the brown bag under the cooler, stopping it from blowing away.
