Page 24

“What can I do to help?” he asks softer than before. Like he’s afraid if he speaks too loudly, I might shatter.

I might…

I croak out, “You can grab the ranch dressing.”

There’s a pause. Tate clarifies, “You mean the sour cream?”

I dare a peek at him to see that his face is back to the easy, familiar Tate that I know and love.

Love…

I don’t know what I’m doing.

I shake my head. “If you want sour cream, have at it. I want ranch.”

He muffles his laughter with a snort, digging both the sour cream and the ranch dressing from the fridge. He places both side by side on the counter. “What else?”

“Um.” I pause to frown at the can I bought under pregnancy possession—because if it isn’t possession I don’t know what else possessed me. I wince as I chance yet another peek at him. “Can you open the olives?”

“Olives?” Tate parrots slowly, like he’s not sure if I’m messing with him but he’s too afraid to challenge me—or the thing that possessed me to buy the abominations.

“Mmhmm.”

“You don’t like olives.” He swipes the can from the counter, seemingly just realizing it was there all along. “Black olives, at that.”

“They can’t be that bad.”

He cringes. “They are.”

“Shut up and open the can.” I huff, but there’s a smile tugging at my lips as he makes a show of shivering in disgust.

He opens the can, and I pluck one from the top, again, possessed by an entity that is entirely not me.

It’s delicious.

We make our tacos, Tate following my lead warily.

When our shells have been loaded and we’ve made it to the table, Tate accuses, “This is not a taco.”

“Looks like a taco to me.” I grin, taking a massive bite and moaning in pure pleasure.

This is infinitely better than pizza.

Tate clears his throat, tearing his eyes from me to glare at his plate. “What kind of crazy person puts dill pickles, onions, ranch dressing and olives on a taco? Where’s the tomatoes and salsa?”

“I promise it’s amazing,” I vow around another deliciously crunchy bite. “Try it.”

“Here goes nothing,” Tate mutters through a grin he fights as he brings his taco to his mouth and takes a giant man-bite.

I give him all of half a second before I demand excitedly, “And?”

“And I think I’d do anything for you.”

“Oh, whatever!” I roll my eyes. “It’s culinary perfection. You’re just being dramatic.”

I take another big bite, moaning another heavenly moan.

I’ll never eat tacos any other way for as long as I live. I’m convinced it’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted. An olive topples from the taco to land on my plate. I pluck it up and pop it into my mouth, savouring the salty taste.