Page 109 of Stealth Mission

I try and fail miserably to ignore how good he looks in my kitchen as he leans a hip against the counter and looks down at me.

“I’m sorry for everything. That I upset you. That I didn’t tell you more. That you had to deal with the police chief.”

System overload.

Am I really ready for this conversation? I chose to divert. “Do you like tequila?”

He blinks at me, lifting a dark, handsome eyebrow. “Mostly.”

I push around various jars of condiments and salsa in the fridge until I find what I’m looking for. “There. I knew it was in here somewhere.”

The blue bottle of DonAzule Tequila is half full.

“I can’t remember the last time I had it out. Months ago.”

I place it on the counter with a thunk.

He’s still looking at me when I pass by him and get two small glasses from the cabinet next to the oven.

The watchful silence continues as my favorite kitchen knife clunks against the cutting board as I halve three freshly picked limes.

The air fills with the sharp tangy scent. The smell transports me back a few years.

“My grandfather loved limes. We used to pick them together. The last time we did was when I was home on a college break. That was the last time I saw him.”

It takes work not to tear up. I blow out a breath, lifting my hair off my face.

I can’t look at Evan. The sound of his slow, steady breathing is almost more than I can take.

I never talk about these things. It feels foreign and wrong, but yet good all at once.

When I glance down there’s a half of a lime in my hand.What was I doing?

Oh, right. Juicing these. When I’m finished extracting all of the pale green juice, I push the cups his way. “Your turn.”

The cork makes a dull pop sound as it exits the long neck of the bottle.

“Say when.”

Perfect golden liquid streams from the bottle into the first cup.

Pride pushes aside some of the pain. “We made this.”

“It’s really nice that you had a grandfather to raise you and work with.”

My breath stills as I look into his eyes. “How did you know that about him?”

“Vik told me about the farm.”

I expect to find pity in his expression. When people find out my story—that I lost my only close family and was left with the business, they look at me a certain way.

But he looks… almost proud instead.

He tips the bottle upright, stopping the pour and moves to the other cup. “So this is a special blend?”

I nod and find a wide smile pulling at my cheeks. “It is. This is our aged, premium tequila. Made from the plants on this farm.”

“I bet it was made with a lot of love.”

---