Page 12 of Nacho Boyfriend

“No,” she says impishly. “I’m just… waiting to appreciate the notes.”

“We can conclude our lesson for today.”

“No.” Her eyes flash open to meet mine, and her little hand flies to catch my forearm. Something strange stirs in my belly. “I want to learn.”

“Then close your eyes.”

She lowers her lids again and I try not to notice the contrast of our skin temperatures as her fingers rest on my left arm. With my right hand, I lift the reposado to her nose, passing it back and forth.

“Now concentrate. What do you smell?”

She takes a deep breath through her nose, taking in the aroma, her little fingers giving me a slight squeeze.

“Vanilla?”

“Good. What else?”

She sniffs again. “Maybe a little cinnamon?”

“Not bad.”

She grins. “Okay, next.”

“Hang on. Open your eyes.” I slip my arm out of her soft hold and lean back a little. “You need to cleanse your olfactory palate.”

“How do I do that?”

“Well, you’re supposed to take a whiff of the crook of your elbow.”

“Ah, like when you’re candle shopping.”

“I guess. But your skin probably smells like tortilla chips after working all day.”

“It’s a good thing I like tortilla chips,” she quips.

“Here.” I roll up my shirtsleeve, folding over the fabric of my cuffs until my elbow is exposed. Olive’s pretty pink lips part ever so slightly. I’ll never understand women’s fascination with shirtsleeves. “Use my elbow. I haven’t been here all day and don’t smell like tacos.”

If I smell like anything, it would be Yorkie. That little rat dog better not be making a mess in my office.

Olive’s eyes dart from my arm to my face. “You want me to sniff your elbow?”

“To reset your nose, yes.”

A flush creeps up her face even as she rolls her eyes. “Okay… weirdo.”

I ignore the weirdo comment and lift my arm to meet her nose. She takes in a long pull of breath, touching her nose to the crook of my elbow. I hadn’t realized until this moment how sensitive the skin is there. How the sensation of another person’s touch—even a nose—can send ticklish reflexes up my arm.

I shake it off and tell her to close her eyes again. She shuts them like shutters, sitting up straight.

“Nose palate successfully cleansed,” she says brightly.

“Alright. Tell me what you think of this one.”

I pass a glass of añejo tequila under her nose. “What flavors can you detect?”

She sniffs it in, taking a moment to give it some thought.

“Caramel, apricot… and maybe pecan.” Another sniff and her face illuminates. “Chocolate!”

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