“What do they say, Babs?”
“Spice is like life—wait, no. Spice is the…spice? The spice of life. Wait, that’s not right either.” Babs frowned but then shook it off. “Anyway, a little spice is good for you. Makes things more interesting.”
I raised my eyebrows, and across the table, Noah caught my eye, amusement flickering in his expression. Before I could stop myself, I smiled back. It wasn’t intentional, but…
But Babs wasn’t finished. “Luna, dear, you must have an opinion on this.”
I shifted in my chair. “Margaritas sound good to me.”
Babs waved a hand. “No, dear. About the guac! You’re a professional cook. What’s the secret to making the perfect guacamole?”
Beside her, Mrs. Grady stiffened with a frown.
“You’re a cook, as in, you work in…a restaurant?” she asked.
How many times had I heard this attitude from my own mother? I smoothed my hands along the fabric of my dress and forced a smile. “I’m currently…between jobs.” I lifted my chin. “But yes. I cook in a restaurant.”
“Do you have a guacamole philosophy, Luna?” Completely ignoring the sudden shift in energy, Babs barreled right along. “Extra lime? Some sort of special ingredient? Tell us your secrets.”
I hesitated. I mean, I’d never considered it a philosophy per se.
“Well,” I started carefully. “You absolutely have to use ripe avocados. And then you don’t want to mash it up too much. A little texture gives it structure. Lime juice is a must, obviously, and so is salt—but not too soon, or it’ll get watery.”
“And cilantro,” Noah cut in smoothly.
“Sparingly,” I added, but then I stopped, my head jerking up. Wait. What? How did Noah Grady know I used cilantro in my guacamole recipe? Sure, it wasn’t super unusual, but not everybody used it.
He just grinned, obviously enjoying himself. “And jalapeños.”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “But only if they’re fresh.”
“Naturally.” He nodded, his eyes gleaming. Had he…?
Leo and I had recorded an episode featuring my grandmother’s recipe for guacamole.
Our server arrived just then, and across from me, Noah leaned back in his chair and shot me a look. Like the two of us were sharing in an inside joke.
And then he smirked. He had!
Next to him, Mrs. Grady’s eyes narrowed calculatingly. “Remember, darling, that little taco place we went to in San Diego? They had the best fish tacos, and the guacamole was spectacular.”
Noah, still holding my gaze for a fraction of a second too long, finally looked at his mother. “Huh? Oh, yeah, those were good.”
The waiter returned then with our drinks (a half-salted margarita for Denise, full-salted margaritas for the rest, and an extra-large for Babs) and, once those were all distributed, he began preparing the tableside guacamole while Ed provided enthusiastic play-by-play commentary. No cilantro or jalapenos, but the waiter did chop up some fresh bell peppers and garlic.
I should’ve been fully engaged in the conversation. But my eyes kept drifting—kept catching Noah’s.
And every time they did, I felt a warmth, more than friendship, unfurl in my stomach.
UNDER THE SUN
At our first stop in Arches National Park, I stepped off the bus and immediately felt the heat swirl around my legs. It wasn’t just hot, it was aggressive.
And while others marched off, I hesitated, considering the fact that I’d completely forgotten to grab extra water before leaving the restaurant.
Oh, and I’d had that margarita.
Note to self: next town—buy a water bottle.
