“You were amazing up there,” Clare says as we walk into our favorite hole-in-the-wall Mexican place. It’s nothing fancy—plastic chairs, fluorescent lighting, salsa that could strip paint—but the burritos are the size of small children, and the margaritas are strong enough to knock out a horse.
“I was okay.”
“You had those women ready to throw their panties at you.” She slides into the booth across from me, grinning. “That thing about running from something real? Very smooth, Mitchy.”
Heat creeps up my neck. “Yeah, well. The book was good.”
“The bookwasgood,” she agrees, but she’s looking at me like she knows exactly what I was really talking about.
The waitress brings our usual—two house margaritas, extra salt, and enough chips to feed a small army. Clare immediately steals the perfect chip from the top of the basket, the one that’s exactly the right size for optimal salsa-to-chip ratio.
“Hey,” I protest, reaching for it.
“You snooze, you lose.” She dips it in salsa and takes a deliberate bite, eyes dancing with mischief.
“You’re evil.”
“I’m efficient.” She pushes the basket toward me. “There are plenty more.”
I grab a chip and load it with salsa, but instead of eating it, I hold it out to her. “Open.”
“Mitch—”
“Come on. I shared my deep thoughts about vampire literature with a room full of strangers. You owe me.”
She rolls her eyes but leans forward and takes the bite. A drop of salsa lands on her bottom lip, and before she can wipe it away, I’m leaning across the table to kiss it off.
“Subtle,” she murmurs against my mouth.
“I don’t do subtle.”
“I’ve noticed.” But she doesn’t pull away. “You know, when you said that thing about not running from something real...”
“Yeah?”
“Were you talking about the book, or were you talking about us?”
I should deflect. Make a joke. Keep things light like I always do. But something about the way she’s looking at me—open, hopeful, like she’s ready to hear whatever I need to say—makes me want to be honest.
“Both,” I admit.
Her smile is soft, vulnerable. “Good. Because I’m not running either.”
The waitress appears with our food—massive burritos that require a fair bit of planning to eat properly.
“You know,” she says, cutting into her burrito, “the women at book club weren’t the only ones ready to throw their panties at you tonight.”
My fork pauses halfway to my mouth. “Yeah?”
“Mmm.” She takes a bite, completely casual. “Good thing we live together now. Very convenient.”
“Convenient,” I repeat, voice rougher than intended.
“Very.” She meets my eyes, and there’s heat there that has nothing to do with the jalapeños in her burrito. “Think we can get this to-go?”
I’m already signaling for the check.
Chapter Forty-Five