Until the Tequila (The Killers #3.5)(5)

That’s an obligation I have no trouble keeping. “I promise.”

The last thing I see before turning to my office is a sad smile settle onto my boss’s face. I have some calls to make this morning before I start fulfilling that promise sooner rather than later.

Checking up on Mary’s hangover is a perfect place to start.





4





Cherry Stems and Lies





Mary





Oh fuck, the banging.

It needs to stop.

The midday sun breaks through my lids and I realize the hammering isn’t coming from inside my head. Someone’s beating on my door. I pick up my cell that’s lying on the bed next to me from where it fell from my sleepy grip when I hung up with July and see it’s only a little after one o’clock.

I crawl out of bed and shuffle my way through my apartment as the incessant banging continues. Cinching my kimono robe tight, I throw the lock and open the door without checking to see who it is, if for no other reason than to stop the noise.

The smell hits me first—something greasy and probably from a drive-thru—before I look up and see Evan. After all I put it through last night, my stomach doesn’t turn at the succulent scent of fried food, but instead grumbles. When I look down, he’s holding a huge bag in one hand and a fountain drink in the other, causing my mouth to go dry. If that’s a cheeseburger and Diet Coke, I might fall to my knees and weep.

“Thought I’d take my lunch hour to check on you and make sure you fed that hangover, but I’ve gotta say, the way you’re lusting after this burger and fries makes me jealous.”

My eyes jump to his that are hiding behind a pair of Ray-Bans and it’s only from the tilt of his head that I can tell his eyes have dropped to my body.

“We need to talk about last night,” he adds.

I lean onto the door and wonder what he’d do if I grabbed the food and slammed the door in his face? I’m starving and don’t want to talk—desperate times call for desperate measures. “We can talk another time, like in a few months at Addy’s Christmas party. I’m sure you have to get back to the tasting room. I hear Monday afternoons are busy.”

His lips tip on one side because he knows I’m full of shit. The tasting room is closed on Mondays and I’m surprised he was even at work.

He has the audacity to lift my drink that he’s still holding to his lips and take a pull from the straw as he flicks his shades off. I frown as he teases me with my post-hangover drug. “You know we’re closed today, even though I’d risk Addy firing me for you. There are things I want to know and you’re not getting one french fry until you let me in.”

My stomach growls and he hears it too because his smirk turns into a smile.

“You talking is a small price to pay for greasy drive-thru to settle your stomach,” he adds.

My brow quirks. “It’s rude to talk with your mouth full.”

“Yeah?” His eyes rake down to my turquoise painted toes one more time before boomeranging back to mine and this time his are intense. “Who taught you that?”

I nibble on the side of my lip. With the hints he gave me this morning of our date last night, I have a feeling that question holds more weight than its face value. “I learned it while watching reruns of The Brady Bunch on Nick at Nite. Alice was a stickler for table manners.”

He shakes his head and, transferring the greasy sack to his hand holding my drink, opens it. Without taking his eyes off mine, he reaches in and produces a french fry, tossing it between his full lips, speaking with his mouth full. “I’ve never watched The Brady Bunch. You’ve gotta let me in if you’re hungry, otherwise I’m gonna stand out here and eat it all in front of you.”

“Is there cheese on that burger?”

He licks the salt off his fingers. “Yeah. It’s a double.”

I lick my lips.

What the hell? I need that burger.

I start to open my door all the way for him and, just when I am about to ask if he brought me my favorite fountain drink, he moves, forcing me to step back and trip over the shoes I tossed when I got home this morning. He kicks the door shut with his boot and doesn’t stop.

“What are you doing?” I ask, still moving backward as he advances on me.

I barely have the chance to sidestep him as he strides toward my kitchen. “You’re going to eat and answer my questions.”

I follow, watching him fill my space. My apartment is small and dingy and I could afford so much more, but why? It’s just me and I’m fine right here.

But I have this man in my home—a man I’ve had to pretend doesn’t make me nervous. Evan makes my space seem miniscule.

I tug on my robe to tighten it and watch him drop his sunglasses, food, and, what I pray is a Diet Coke, on the counter.

I open the bag and pull out two fries. They practically melt in my mouth they taste so good.

Evan crosses his arms across his wide chest and leans his hip into the counter, facing me, as I start to dig into the bag.

“Why did you move to Virginia by yourself when you were eighteen?”

My jaw freezes mid-chew. That’s not what I expected him to ask, but it is telling as to what I blabbed about last night in my drunken state along with my obsession for pesky flowers.