to cocky smiles from sexy old boyfriends with baaaaad reputations. “Beer, then? Unless you don’t have any.”
“Oh, I’ve got some, but—”
“Then hand her over.” At Eli’s dubious—and annoyingly protective—look, she sighed. “I can hold a single beer, Eli.” Never mind the nasty little voice whispering that, actually, no, she couldn’t, which was why she rarely drank. “Especially if I’m eating.”
The voice sniggered.
Oh, for crying out loud—so what if she got a little buzz on? She somehow doubted the world would implode. But dammit, she thought as she watched Eli pour out a can of Bud into a tall glass—which he rinsed out first—she’d been responsible for everyone and everything for so, so long, what was one little old beer in the scheme of things? And besides—
“And besides—” Her hands fisted on the table, she looked him square in the eye. “This is weird, okay? Me being here with you, in your house. What with all the other weirdnesses going on in my life…”
“Got it.” Eli handed her the beer, then sat with his own, and he was all big and solid and manly and such, and she remembered that baaaad reputation of his.
“Don’t you think this is weird?” she asked, shivering a little.
“Heck, yeah,” he said, lifting his glass to her. Spearing her with those eerie light brown eyes. Almost gold. Kinda the same color as his hair. The too-long hair half covering his ears, glossy in the chandelier’s light, all those hard-edged features at odds with those soft, soft curls—
Tess tipped back her glass; three gulps later, it was half-gone—
“Hey,” she said when Eli grabbed it from her. “Give that back.”
“Not until you eat something,” he said, tucking into his own food while holding her glass just out of reach, the creep. Only after Tess downed several bites and her eyes were streaming from the chili did Eli take pity on her and return her drink. Her mouth on fire, she finished it off. The belch just kind of escaped.
“Whoa,” Eli said. Grinning. Tess blinked, thinking she could practically see the pheromones rising from his warm skin. Like ghosts from a graveyard on Halloween.
And you know this is only because every time you see Ricky you go a little crazy. Has nothing to do with Eli.
“You know, these are almost as good as mine,” she said, jabbing her fork at the enchiladas. Which were beginning to get a little blurry.
“No way,” Eli said, forking in a huge mouthful. “Nobody makes enchiladas better’n Evangelista.”
“Oh, and you would know this how? I love Eva with all my heart, but my grandmother’s recipe…People have been known to kill for her enchiladas.”
“Seriously?”
“Okay, not really. But close.” Tess took another bite. Then burped again. And frowned at her glass. “S’empty.”
Laughing, Eli stood, pulling a pitcher from the fridge. “How ’bout some tea now?”
“Hell, no. I can have tea at home.” She held out her glass, suddenly fascinated with the way it sparkled in the light from the chandelier. “Hit me with another Bud, bud.” She giggled. And hiccupped.
Eli got a funny look on his face. “You sure?”
She rolled her eyes. They felt a little loose. “Not driving, I’m good. Oh, come on—have pity on the poor divorcée, huh? What’s the worst that can happen?”
“You get bombed and puke all over my rug?”
Tess shook her head. Decided maybe she shouldn’t do that again. “I didn’t even throw up when I was pregnant,” she said, which made her sad, thinking about her babies and how much she loved them and how hard it was when they were off with their father, even though that only happened maybe once a month, if that, and that here she was, sitting in Eli Garrett’s kitchen, drinking his beer and not even thinking about them. Except she was, because she was always thinking about her babies.
She thought maybe she was getting a little…confused.
Nothing another beer couldn’t fix, right?
“Please,” she said, and Eli took her glass, pouring another beer into it, God bless his baaaaad self.
“Need any help?” Eli heard Tess ask when he went to clear the table shortly after they’d finished their meal.
“Nope. All under control. Soon as I give ’em a rinse, I’ll run you home. If you’re ready.”
She gave him a slightly guarded smile, then nodded. “Sure thing,” she said, getting to her feet. More or less steadily, he was relieved to note. Not that she was exactly sober—feeling no pain was the phrase that came to mind—but thankfully she’d stopped well short of stupid drunk. Eli’d been with his share of stupid drunk women over the years; whatever amusement he’d at one time found in those sorts of shenanigans had long since faded. And besides, Tess getting plastered…just didn’t seem right.
In any case, he got the feeling the beer had only been an excuse to let go—which something told him she hadn’t done in a very long while. Not that she’d gone all maudlin on him or anything; mostly, they talked about her kids, Miguel and Julia—pronounced with an H instead of a J—and his recently married and very much younger brother, Jesse, and his wife, Rachel, how they were dealing with being new parents, stuff like that. In fact, whenever Eli’d tried to steer the conversation in Tess’s direction, she’d steer it right back.
Because, okay, he was curious about what had happened between her and Enrique, who’d been deployed overseas for most of their marriage. Maybe more than curious—he’d watched his older brother, Silas, go through a nasty divorce, knew how hard it was. Especially on the good ones. Like his brother. Or Tess.
Still, the protective feelings boiling up inside him went way beyond your garden-variety gee-I-hope-she’s-okay concern. What did it matter to him whether she got drunk or not? Or made a fool of herself?
So why, as he stood at the sink, half watching her walk into his living room with her hands tucked into her jacket’s front pouch, did he feel compelled to make sure she wasn’t gonna keel over or anything?
“Everything okay in there?” he called over.
Tess nodded. A little too vigorously. “I like what you’ve done here.”
Stacking the plates in the dishwasher, he laughed. “I think ‘done’ might be overstating it. Unless you consider shoving around a bunch of castoffs and thrift store junk so I can walk through the room without injuring myself ‘done.’”
“It’s…” She gave him a puzzled look over her shoulder. “You.”
“Lot to be said for not having to consider anybody else’s opinion.” The dishwasher shut, he was about to say, “Ready?” when she spun around and collapsed into the couch, an old beige corduroy number that had been in his parents’ family room. The fluff was worn off in some places, and the cushions sagged from being crushed
