She pulled back the curtain. Travis stood there, a glow of porch light illuminating his broad back, since he had turned toward the street. She frowned. What on earth was he doing here?
Unlocking the door, she tugged it open.
“Travis?” she asked.
Well, wasn’t this just unexpected? Also, not entirely desired. Sofa, television, then maybe a Matthew McConaughey flick to get her in the mood for a little special alone time. The kind that involved her imagination and her hand.
“Hey.” Travis turned back to her, bashful, which wasn’t the usual for him. He held out a paper bag. “I thought you might appreciate some refreshments after the party.”
She opened the bag, looked in, and then glanced back up at him. He’d brought her tequila, limes, Grand Marnier, simple syrup, and the cute salt that came in a special plastic container with the sombrero lid.
Her heart squeezed, in the good way.
Gavin was right, she liked surprises—when they weren’t of the alive variety.
“You read my sign?” she asked.
He grinned, the bashful gone and his persistent charm taking its place. “I did. And I also figured you deserved a little present for standing up to my mom the way you did. She’s not used to that. It’s good for her.”
She liked the bashful better. The bashful was vulnerable, and Travis didn’t generally do vulnerable. To be totally honest, the charisma put her on edge and made her wary of his intentions. Most women probably fell all over themselves when he turned on that dark magic of his, but Rachel wasn’t most women. That part of him was so polished, so determined…it wasn’t authentic.
The conversation stalled when Rachel didn’t say anything further. The vulnerability seeped back into his expression as they stood there together at her door—her inside with all the fixings for margaritas, him outside… alone.
“Come in,” she said immediately, like an idiot who became incompetent around a guy who sounded like a young Matthew McConaughey and had around the same build—the athletic kind that she admired.
Travis, however, didn’t move.
She’d invited him in, and he hadn’t moved. Crap.
The seventh-grade awkwardness had nothing on the way she felt right then.
She gestured into the house. Internally she warred with herself for overextending the invite. On the one hand, he’d brought her the makings of drinks. On the other, he was Travis.
“I mean…” The decision became easy because…tequila. “You’re welcome to come in, if you’d like.”
He stared at her for a moment, then a wry grin spread across his mouth.
Oh dear. That was nice.
She had to stop comparing Travis to movie stars just because he was being a good guy.
“I’d love to come in.” He followed her inside, latching the door behind him.
He pulled off his shoes and set them next to the sign she had made up that read, Shoes Off, Please and Thank You.
“It’s quiet.” She moved to the kitchen to unload the bag. No one had ever taken her margarita sign seriously. She hadn’t, either, when she first made it, but then as time went on and the boys got bigger and the intensity of life weighed heavier—she’d wished more than once that someone would leave her a basket of margarita fixings.
“It is,” he said, his deep voice seeming out of place in the quiet space of her home. “Quiet.”
“It’s never quiet.” She set the limes aside, finished unloading the bag, and folded it carefully before sliding it into the cabinet under the sink.
“Even when the boys sleep?” Travis pulled two glasses from the cupboard.
“You have no idea.” She did her best to keep her eyes open. It was hard, but she managed it. She snagged a cutting board for the limes and the cocktail shaker she wished she got to use more often.
“Do you want one or two?” Travis popped the top off the shaker and filled it with ice from the fridge. “Or a pitcher for later?”
Uh, a pitcher for later, duh. She pulled the shaker back into her grip. “I can mix them. You don’t have to.”
