Page 28 of Across the Boards

“Was it now?” Elliot blushes that has nothing to do with the spicy salsa.

“Definitely.” I lean forward slightly. “Makes me wonder how it tastes.”

She nearly choked on her water. “Careful, Carter. That sounded dangerously like a line.”

“Not a line. Just an observation.” I grin at her. “Though if you wanted to give me a taste test, I wouldn’t object.”

“In the middle of a taco truck parking lot? What will people think?” Her humor is a refreshing change from her natural deflection.

“I’m just saying, Manuel makes a mean fish taco, but I bet you taste better.”

“That’s quite an assumption for someone who hasn’t sampled the goods.”

My eyebrows shoot up, I clearly wasn’t expecting her to play along. “An oversight I’d be happy to correct. For scientific comparison purposes, of course.”

“Of course,” she agrees, clearly enjoying herself. “Can’t have incomplete data sets.

“I’d suggest we take this somewhere more private than a taco truck parking lot. Unless exhibitionism is on your bucket list?”

A startled laugh escaped her, breaking the tension without dispelling it. “Tempting, but I’d rather not give Manuel a show with his tacos.”

“Raincheck, then?” Her eyes hold mine and my stomach flips.

“Ask me again after I’ve finished my food,” she counters. “Research shows decision-making improves after adequate fish taco consumption.”

“I’ll make sure you’re fully satisfied,” I promise, the double entendre impossible to miss as I flag Manuel down. “Two more tacos for the lady. She needs to make some important decisions tonight.”

The drive home is comfortable, filled with easy conversation about everything from her current editing project to the most ridiculous hockey superstitions I’ve encountered. As we pull into her driveway, I’m reluctant for the evening to end.

We sit there for a moment, neither making a move to leave. I’m hyperaware of her proximity in the dark car and the way her hands rest lightly on the steering wheel.

“I should let you get inside,” I say finally, though it’s the last thing I want. “Thanks for the ride. And the company.”

“Thanks for the tacos,” she replies. “They live up to the hype.”

“I told you. Thursday fish delivery. Critical information.”

“Very critical,” she agrees, a smile playing at her lips.

I open my door reluctantly, stepping out into the cool evening air. She follows, walking with me to her front step. Under the soft porch light, she looks even more beautiful—her eyes bright, a few strands of hair caught by the breeze.

“Your jacket,” she says, starting to shrug it off.

“Keep it,” I say quickly. “Return it next time.”

“Next time?”

“Yeah.” I meet her eyes. “I was thinking maybe dinner? At my place? I can wow you with my bolognese.”

She studies me for a moment, and I can almost see her weighing the invitation, calculating risks and benefits in that precise way she approaches everything.

“Okay,” she says finally. “But fair warning—I have high pasta standards.”

Relief and excitement course through me. “I welcome the challenge.”

“Good.” She unlocks her door, pausing before stepping inside. “Goodnight, Brody.”

My name. Not Carter. Brody. It sends a stupid little thrill through me.

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