Page 28 of Loving You

Well, the female population, anyway.

He chuckled as he dropped his key fob and that leather folder he always carried on the island. “First of all, whether you’d had time to ditch the evidence or not, I never would’ve believed you made those tacos.”

I lifted my chin. “Maybe I watched a TikTok and taught myself how to cook.”

“Do you know how much patience is required to fry tortillas like that?”

Glancing down at the corn shells, I shrugged. “I can be patient.”

“Sure you can. Do you know how long it takes to properly marinate and cook that beef?”

I sniffed the spicy aroma wafting up from the plate. “Longer than I’ve been staying here?”

“Nearly, yes. So unless you’ve got a Mexican kitchen in that attic room of yours…”

I rolled my eyes. “Whatever. I bought you tacos and had them delivered. Thank god for DoorDash. Eat them or shut up.”

“Oh, now who’s issuing commands?” he teased, rounding the counter to wash his hands at the sink.

But before he’d put his back to me, I’d seen the relief in his eyes. He’d seemed wary when he came in the door, like he was worried I hadn’t been okay without him today.

But I had.

I’d gotten ready as if it were any other day, called my sisters to let them know I’d be working from Eric’s place and that I was perfectly safe, and then I sat down at his gorgeous kitchen table and had been productive as shit. Even more so after he’d sent me the security app stuff.

I hadn’t been willing to go out for the tacos, hating the idea of getting an alert that Cliff had somehow found out where I was and broke into Eric’s place to wait for me to come back.

But still, it was good.

All day, I’d felt confident, safe, andgood.

Maybe my willingness to banter with him now was because of that, or maybe it was because after he’d tucked me into bed last night—without so much as touching an inch of my skin in the process—I’d gotten the best night’s sleep I’d had in months.

Or, I realized as he turned around and my cheeks heated when I caught sight of his full lips, maybe it was because falling into banter was better than being awkward as fuck in the wake of my little kissing experiment.

It’d been eye-opening for me—even if I didn’t exactly know what it meant. But it was probably weird as hell for him.

“Beer, water, both?” he asked, aiming for the fridge.

I picked up the platter of tacos in one hand and two plates in the other, heading for the kitchen table. “Both, please.”

“You got it.”

When we were settled, he lifted his bottle of Walker’s Pilsner and tipped it toward me. “To homemade tacos.”

I clinked my bottle to his with a frown. “We already established I didn’t make them.”

“True, but I know where they’re from. That food truck is owned by a really great family, and this recipe goes back generations. So, you know, same thing.”

We ate in silence for a few minutes, then he took a sip of his beer and regarded me carefully. “Hey, question.”

“What?” My heart hammered. Would he ask about my past—or, I guess my present—again? I picked up my water glass to fight the dryness in my mouth.

“Do you know the background story of the infamous Walker-Carrigan feud?”

Startled, I choked on my water. “The—oh, yeah. Um.”

“Is it that bad?”

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