Page 96 of Reel Love

“Ahhh.”

“Come in. Come in,” I say, somewhat flustered by the phone call.

It feels like she’s here, lurking in my home—invading this private moment that should be just me and Stevens.

Instead of walking toward my kitchen, Stevens takes a step in my direction. He runs his palm down my cheek.

“You seem a little rattled. Everything okay?”

“Yes.” I look up into his calm brown eyes. “No … Sort of.”

I blow out a breath.

He sets the bag of tacos on my entry table and pulls me into a hug.

“What’s got you unsettled?”

I lean into him, wrapping my arms around his waist and sinking into the comfort he’s offering.

“My mother. She’s … pushy, demanding, overbearing …” I look up at him.

His eyes are so tender. Concern is etched across his forehead, like he’d absorb anything for me, stand between me and whatever distresses me. If only he could. I won’t let him. What I face regularly is not something I want anywhere near him. He’s too good.

“I’m making her sound horrible. She’s not, you know.”

“I believe you.” His voice is soft and compassionate.

He runs the back of his hand down my face and tips my chin up toward him. I think he’s going to kiss me—I want him to. But he just smiles softly.

“Let’s eat tacos,” he says. “I’ve found tacos solve many problems. And the ones they don’t solve, well … they don’t hurt.”

“Is that so?”

He steps back, retrieves his bag and walks toward the kitchen.

“You don’t think so?” he asks, setting the bag on the counter and opening it.

“I don’t know. I haven’t ever tested that theory.”

“Yeah. That’s what Brigitte said.”

“What did she say?”

“She said you don’t eat tacos unless they have tofu. Something like that. Is it true?” He’s got a teasing look to him when he glances at me. “Do you eat tofu tacos?”

“I have.”

“Are they any good?”

“Compared to what?”

“Carne asada, shrimp or mahi mahi?”

“I don’t know.”

“You … you’ve never eaten those kinds of tacos?”

“Um … no?”

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