Page 23

He fingers the unopened taco seasoning before lifting the Cajun seasoning. “With Cajun?”

“Mmmhmm.”

“What are the pickles for?” I’m pretty sure that’s amusement I hear in his rough timbre. I dare a peek up at him through my chopping—and yep, definitely amusement.

“The tacos.”

“Of course.” He’s fighting a grin now.

I pause my chopping to plop a fist on my hip. I narrow my eyes on him and demand, “Of course, what?”

“Nothing.” He lifts his hands in the universal gesture of surrender, but there’s a smirk playing at his lips. “It smells good.”

My shoulders fall in relief, and I return to my onion. “Good.”

There’s laughter in his tone as he asks, “How was your day?”

“It was good. We had a good day at the shop. Dad’s got a sale on summer stuff going on, so it was busy.”

“Glad to hear it.” Tate pushes off the counter to move to the fridge. He opens it and grabs a can of Coke.

My nose wrinkles. “I don’t know how you drink that.”

“It’s easy.” He cracks the top and lifts it to his lips. “Just bring it to your lips and…”

He trails off as the can touches his mouth, and he tips his head back. I’m oddly caught up in him as I watch his throat work with each swallow.

He pulls the can away with a loud, “Ahh.” His eyes, so brilliantly green settle on me as his lips curl into a teasing smirk. “And that, sweetheart, is how it’s done.”

I don’t know what’s happening.

Tate is—attractive?

My lips part on a small, shocked O as my eyes drag the length of him. Every inch of six-foot-two muscly male bit of him from the messy, dark blonde hair that tops his head, the hard square of his jaw, the thick cords of his neck and everything in between to the tip of his sock-covered toes.

My face flushes and heat threatens to scorch me from the inside out.

I think I may combust.

What the actual heck is happening?

“Faye?” he calls.

Is his voice suddenly rough or is my hearing as distorted as my sense?

“Hmm?” I squeak.

Oh, good God I squeaked!

“I think the meat is done.”

“Oh.” I jump to turn off the burner as Tate reaches for the pan. Our bodies connect in the small space, and I am hit with the full mass of him.

Another hot flush of heat surges through me. My belly twists into relentless knots as weighted butterflies do their best to take flight.

And then I remember that I’m pregnant with his brother’s baby and they crash land with a painful, sickening splat that leaves me feeling horribly bereft.

I pull myself away from him as though his nearness burned me, continuing to chop the onions as my eyes begin to water.