Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 101254 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 506(@200wpm)___ 405(@250wpm)___ 338(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101254 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 506(@200wpm)___ 405(@250wpm)___ 338(@300wpm)
Margaritas.
Rita.
Saint Rita. The patron saint of something that speaks to me now.
I know Ben likes Wild Turkey, but he did drink a margarita in Jamaica the first night.
I wish I had some Wild Turkey…
I don’t, but I do have the ingredients to make margaritas. It may not be what Ben wants, but it’s been so long since I’ve had a margarita, and I think I’d like one.
The Skye cocktail in Jamaica was quite good, but not as good as a margarita.
I put Rita down. “What the heck?” I say out loud. “Let’s make some margaritas, Rita.”
I take my bottle of reposado from the small cupboard above my refrigerator and grab several limes out of the fruit drawer. Sugar and triple sec are next.
I halve the limes and juice them until I have one full cup of lime juice.
Then I grab my blender and mix everything together.
I’m a purist. I don’t drink my margaritas frozen. I mix them, and then I shake them over ice in a cocktail shaker.
That makes them cold but doesn’t dilute them.
But I wait. I’ll shake them once Ben gets here and then—
Rita barks at a knock on the door.
“He’s here, Rita!”
I pad to the door in my bare feet, and I open it.
And Ben—gorgeous Ben—comes right in.
Before I know it, he grabs my face, and he touches his lips to mine.
Chapter Forty-Two
Ben
God, her lips.
As soft and sweet as I remember. Even more so. My cock responds, aching in my jeans.
I pull back, ending the kiss before it even starts.
Tessa widens her eyes, her lips still parted and glistening from the kiss.
She looks beautiful. She’s dressed in a sky blue tank top that hugs her curves—and her nipples are hard against the fabric.
Her feet are bare, and it’s incredibly erotic.
I want to throw her up against the wall and fuck her into it. I want to fuck her in the shower, on the couch, on the dining table, on the kitchen counter, on her bed, on the floor, against the wall. Especially after the day I’ve had.
But I can’t. I have to behave myself. I have to do this thing right.
“Sorry,” I say.
She pulls away, smiling. “I don’t think I was complaining.”
“I had a shitty afternoon, Tessa, but that’s not your fault.” He caresses my cheek. “I should have come in, said hello first.”
“I’m sorry you had a bad afternoon.” She hugs me and presses her cheek to my chest. It feels so good, so comforting, and so… “You want to talk about it?”
“Not particularly.” I inhale. “Something smells amazing in here.”
She waves toward her small kitchen. “I know we just had Mexican food yesterday at my father’s funeral, but I felt like cooking my mother’s recipes. Which is odd, because I’m not a cook and haven’t made anything for myself since…well, before Garrett.”
I hold back a wince at her mention of Garrett. I’ll have to pay a visit to the little leech, make sure he and Dirk’s brother stay far away from my woman.
My woman?
My God…
I’ve only kissed her, and now she’s my woman?
I’m fucked in the head. So fucked in the head that I’ll protect her at all costs. I’ll bulldoze Boston to the ground if I have to.
Fuck. I rake my fingers through my hair. I’ve never felt this way about any woman before. Hell, I’ve never felt this way about anyone before.
I breathe in. “I love Mexican food. I can eat it seven days a week.”
“I’m glad, because I made it from my favorite of my mother’s recipes. Cheese enchiladas with homemade red sauce.”
I inhale again. “It smells amazing.”
“Come in. I’ve got some chips and salsa set out. And I made margaritas.”
I can’t help smiling at her. Not my favorite, but for Tessa I’ll happily drink battery acid.
“I know it’s not Wild Turkey but—”
“Tessa, a margarita sounds delicious. Normally I don’t go for the sweeter drinks, but with Mexican food, it feels right.”
“I haven’t made margaritas in a long time.” Her lips tremble slightly. “I haven’t drunk a margarita in a long time.”
“You told me it’s your favorite drink.”
“It is.” She kneels and scratches her dog behind her ear. “I named Rita after a margarita.”
I smile. “That’s so adorable.”
“I don’t know about adorable, but I think I’d like to have a margarita. Jamaica was the first time I drank anything alcoholic since…well, you know. I felt like I wanted one tonight.”
I follow her into her small kitchen. She pours the margaritas into a shaker. Then she strains them into two lowball glasses with salted rims and hands one glass to me.
“Cheers,” I say, clicking my glass to hers.
“Cheers,” she echoes and takes a sip.
I smile then because what I see is pure sunshine and goodness. Tessa’s face lights up like downtown Boston during the holidays.
“Good?” I ask.
“So good.” She licks a few grains of salt from her lips. “The salt, and the tangy sweetness of the lime, and the smoky tequila… I really forgot how much I love margaritas.” She sighs. “I seem to have forgotten a lot of things.”