“Nope, the sign says margaritas, not the ingredients. I’m fixing them up for you.”
She looked at him from under her lashes. “I won’t ask you to do that.”
“You’re not asking.” He took the shaker from her.
“Before you start in on telling me how you can make them better, I’d like to point out that I do know how to do this. As a matter of fact, I take margarita making seriously.”
Oh, ouch. She’d definitely touched a nerve.
“On the rocks”—he held the shaker—“or in a blender? I should’ve asked that first.”
“Do you know how to use my blender?”
“I bet I can figure it out.”
“I don’t know. It’s one of those special Pampered Chef ones that can make soup or margaritas or whatever blended concoction you want as long as you press the right button.”
His eyes heated with an intensity Rachel hadn’t felt from a man in…wow, it’d been a while, huh?
“Then I’ll make sure to press the right button,” he said.
“Let’s go with the shaker kind.” Rachel decided immediately.
Travis Frank seemed to maybe, might be, hitting on her with margaritas, and those dimples, and that grin. And she was tired. And her boys were out for the night. And sometimes if she squinted while he was talking, he kind of looked like a superhero version of McConaughey.
“Thank you,” she announced when he started mixing. “For the margaritas.”
Yes, she was thanking Travis. Miracles could happen. It couldn’t have been the tequila, because she hadn’t had any yet, so probably just fatigue.
She wasn’t positive, but she was pretty sure that as he squeezed a lime into the container, he said, “You’re welcome.”
Life had exhausted her, and she had the night off and Travis Frank was making her margaritas and then she was going to sleep. She was going to sleep the hell out of this Friday night.
…
TRAVIS
Fun fact, Rachel was a lightweight. One and a half margaritas and she was an open book.
“My mama told me it was inappropriate to bring beverages of this sort to a child’s birthday party,” Travis said, holding up the remnants of his first, and last, margarita in a mock toast. “I take her guidance on social customs as gospel.”
“That’s ridiculous. You should bring margaritas whenever you want.” Rachel’s face filter had dissolved about halfway through her first margarita, so she looked appropriately appalled.
He held back a smile. Tipsy Rachel was a hoot.
“When, precisely”—she waved her fingertip in a circle—“did you first read my sign?”
“I don’t know.” His southern-boy senses prickled, telling him he was about to get in trouble. He itched at his collar. “Probably around the time you put it up.”
“That sign has been there for two years.” She set her margarita on the coffee table to more fully talk with her hands. “You’re telling me, I could’ve been having these margaritas this whole time?”
Well, yeah, he supposed so. He nodded.
“You should always read the signs and do as they request,” she said on a huff, falling back against the sofa cushions. “When you’re driving in traffic, you don’t just not stop because your mother told you the signs are optional.”
No, he always stopped. She had him there.
“You know, every time I come over, I do shut the front door.” He ran his thumb along his bottom lip. “As requested by that sign there.”
