“Freaky,” I muttered.
He brought down two bowls, putting the cheese in one and setting the other next to my cutting board. His arm brushed mine—the hazards of a tiny kitchen. Just that faint touch of skin against skin sent a pleasant shiver skating over me.
Anson lifted the jar of salsa, frowning. “What brand is this?”
I stilled. “Brand?”
He nodded. “I’ve never seen it before.”
I set the knife down on my cutting board and turned to face him, an appalled look on my face. “Anson Bartholomew Cattigan.”
That lip twitch was back, a little stronger this time. “You know that’s not my name, right?”
“Well, I don’t know your full name, and I needed three names for emphasis.”
“It’s Anson Sutter Hunt.”
It was my turn to scowl at him. “God, that’s a good name. But that’s not the point. We donoteat store-bought salsa in this house.”
He smirked at me.Smirked.It wasn’t a smile, but it was somehow better, the slight curve of those lips beneath his thick scruff. I wondered how that scruff would feel when he kissed you, how it would feel if he—nope, nope, nope.I was not going there.
I took the salsa jar from Anson’s hand and opened it. “This was made with tomatoes, peppers, and onions from Nora’s garden. And a blend of spices that Lolli has been perfecting for years.”
Anson reached out and dipped his finger into the jar.
My jaw went slack. “You didn’t.”
He popped that finger into his mouth, and I shut right up. His brows lifted. “Damn, Reckless. That’s good.”
I swallowed hard, averting my gaze from that mouth. “Told you.”
The timer dinged, saving me from making an utter fool of myself. I got to work pulling the tortillas out of the warmer and plating them so we could assemble our tacos. “You want a beer?”
“Don’t drink.”
I glanced at Anson as I handed him his plate. “Oh. I’ve got Coke, too. Water, milk, OJ.”
“Coke’s good,” he muttered as he took the plate.
I grabbed a soda for him and a Corona for me, then paused. But before I could change my plan, Anson cut me off.
“You can have one. Not gonna send me on a bender or anything.”
I bit my bottom lip but grabbed the beer. “I didn’t want to be rude or unkind.”
Anson lifted the lid on the Crock-Pot. “Went through a rough patch. Leaned a little too heavily on the bottle, so I just cut it out. Then it’s not a risk.” He motioned for me to go before him.
I grabbed the serving fork and quickly shredded the chicken, placing some on my two tortillas. “That takes some serious strength.”
Anson merely shrugged as he served himself. “Don’t miss it most of the time. The moments I do are exactly why I cut it out. Do ginger beer instead.”
I studied Anson as I slid onto a stool at the island. There was so much I wanted to know yet couldn’t bring myself to ask. “It’s easy to try to numb yourself when you’re going through something painful.”
He took the stool next to mine, cracking his Coke. “You sound like you’re speaking from experience.”
I loaded my tacos with cheese, lettuce, and salsa, using that as an excuse to avoid meeting his eyes. “Not substances or anything. But I had to turn everything off after my family died. I couldn’t look at pictures or see mementos. I had to pretend like they never existed at all.”
It was the first time I’d actually said that out loud, admitted that I’d erased my family in my mind for so many years.
