I get to work on a batch of margaritas. I might add a splash more tequila than I should, but I figure it’ll help her relax. Since I’m driving, I’ll only have one and then switch to water.
“So, you never answered my question,” I say, adding the ice.
“Which question?”
“Four-wheeling. Ever been?”
“Nope, but I love being outdoors. Maybe someday,” she responds casually, cutting up the jalapeños.
I’m ready to open my mouth, to invite her to go with me sometime soon, but quickly think better of it. The last thing I’d want is for her to feel like I’m pushing my way into her life, especially after what sounds like a very recent breakup. I don’t mind being a rebound guy, but usually that involves just sex. Asking her to go do one of my favorite pastimes isn’t exactly keeping it casual, if you know what I mean.
I turn on the blender, watching as the liquids blend together and the ice is devoured, making a pretty great mixture of alcohol and taste. “Glasses?” I ask, not wanting to open up all the cabinets in search of what I need.
“To your right, by the sink,” she tells me, just as she moves toward said sink to rinse the spicy peppers. We’re standing directly beside each other, a fruit scent ebbing from her body.
Is it the margarita mix?
Is it her?
There’s only one way to find out.
I bend down, practically shoving my nose into her neck, and inhale.
“What are you doing?” she whispers without moving.
“Smelling you. I caught a whiff of something fruity, and I was seeing if it was you,” I tell her casually, though what’s happening in my pants is anything but.
“Umm, you’re making strawberry margaritas.”
“It’s not exactly strawberry I smell. It’s sweet and fruity, yes, but with hints of vanilla.”
I watch as she swallows hard and turns her head to meet my gaze. “That’s my lotion.” She’s trying to be casual, but it’s not working.
Desperately needing to put a bit of distance between us, I step back to the left and grab the two glasses I was retrieving before I was distracted. “Huh. Well, it smells nice.”
She clears her throat, eyes focused on the peppers. “Thanks.”
I hum an old Hank Williams tune as I coat the rim of the glasses in the salt and pour two perfect margaritas. I take a quick sip of the one I’ll keep, savoring the sweet strawberry mixed with the punch of tequila. We’re talking high-quality presentation and superior taste, if I do say so myself. “Damn, I’m good.”
She chuckles and puts the chopped jalapeños into a bowl. “I think this is ready too,” she says, moving to the fridge to grab the container of sour cream.
I take our glasses to the table and join her at the counter. “You did all this, plus changed and freshened up before I got here?”
She shrugs her delicate shoulders and blushes. “Well, this is pretty simple. The meat takes like two minutes to heat up, and the cheese dip is just microwaved until melted. Cutting the peppers took the longest,” she says with a chuckle.
“It looks delicious.”
“It’s not authentic or gourmet,” she counters.
“It’s perfect. I usually just throw some meat on the grill or cook some vegetables. I’m pretty simple when it comes to food,” I tell her, taking the plate she offers. “No, you go first.”
“But you’re my guest.”
“Ladies first, Oaklee. Always.” I give her a wink and step back, allowing her to make a plate first.
I don’t miss the way she blushes, obviously picking up on the innuendo I wasn’t even trying to aim her way. But now that the comment is out there, I won’t take it back. She would always come first, in every way that matters, including in the bedroom.
She piles a mound of chips on her plate, followed by a healthy scoop of barbecued pulled pork, queso cheese, some jalapeños, and a dollop of sour cream.
