Chapter 27
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
elena
I’ve been pacing his damn porch for five full minutes like a delivery driver unsure if she’s at the right house.
The foil-covered container in my hands is still warm. Not piping, but close enough to qualify as made-with-love territory. Not that I’d admit to that.
They’re tamales. My abuela's recipe. Pork with red chile—shredded by hand, the masa just the right balance of fluffy and rich. I spent the entire evening making them like some apron-wearing domestic goddess even though I swore I’d never be that girl.
And yet here I am, looking like a criminal about to commit an act of kindness.
I wanted to thank him.
For the hot springs scene. For making me laugh. For loosening the knot in my chest that’s been tightening since I was a kid.
But now it feels dumb, like a way over the top response to what was probably just him messing around.
I crouch to set the container down, fully prepared to vanish into the night when the door swings open.
Of course it does.
“Do I need to start leaving out a saucer of milk or something?”
Isaac’s voice is low, amused, and entirely too soft for how badly it makes me flinch.
I freeze. Half crouched. Like a raccoon caught in the act.
He leans against the doorframe in only dark sweatpants, bare chested, barefoot, messy hair and a lazy smile that I hate to admit is growing on me.
“Is that what I think it is?” he asks, glancing at the container. “Looks like humble pie.”
“Ha. Ha.” I straighten slowly, gripping the dish like I might change my mind about handing it over. “It’s . . . just some food I made.”
He raises an eyebrow. “You made food for me?”
I hesitate too long. His grin widens.
“No. It’s for the horses.”
“Easy, spitfire.”
I shrug and push the container into his chest. “You said you liked spicy but not too spicy.”
“I like you spicy,” he says, simultaneously taking the dish and pulling me in by the wrist before I can bolt.
His porch light casts a golden halo around him, but this cowboy is no angel. I can see the filthy promises in his stare.
“I’d been working on that scene all week,” I mumble. “And the laughing, the letting go…your general ridiculous demeanor, actually helped.”
His hand slides up my forearm, sending a shiver in its wake. “Yeah?”
I nod. “I’m better at cooking than saying thank you.”
He leans down, his voice dropping like a secret. “You made me tamales.”
“It’s not a big deal.”
“It is to me. I don’t think anyone except my mom has ever cooked for me. Well, and Ivy, I guess. But only because I show up uninvited to dinner on occasion.”
Then he adds, “Bet they’ll taste even better if we eat them together. Also, you should probably come test out my couch.”
I snort. “Your couch?”
“Yeah. It’s a big fan of women with sharp tongues and perfect asses. I don’t typically have people over so it’s feeling neglected.”
“You’re an idiot.”
He dips his head, brushing his mouth along my cheek like he might kiss me but doesn’t.
“Idiot must be your type then, sweetheart.”
“I’ll stay for one,” I acquiesce.
He takes the container in one hand and my hand in the other. “Tamale or orgasm?”
Both sound pretty damn good, not that I’d tell him that.
“Cool it, cowboy.”
An hour later, the tamales are gone.
My belly is full and my heart is fluttering like a drunk hummingbird. Watching Isaac enjoy something I made did things to me I wasn’t expecting.
He sits beside me on the couch, long legs stretched out, arm resting behind me like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He’s so relaxed, so grounded. I feel like I’ve spent my entire life wound up tight and he’s the first person who ever noticed—and didn’t try to fix me.
Just made space for me to breathe.
We’re watching some modern-day trending western series with decent dialogue and mediocre acting, but I’m not really paying attention. Not to the screen anyway.
His thumb is moving along my bare shoulder in slow, absent-minded circles. Like he doesn’t even know he’s doing it. Like he just needs the contact.
And I’m sinking. Deep.
Not just into his couch, but into him. Into the quiet hum of comfort that I’ve never let myself crave before.
I’ve been getting tired earlier and earlier lately.
I blink slowly. Try to sit up.
“I should—”
“Nope.” His voice is low and final as his arm tightens around my shoulder. “You should relax.”
“I didn’t come here to crash on your couch.”
“And yet, you’re about to. Elena, I don’t want to overstep, but I see you. Krav Maga in the mornings, running a million miles during the week, there was the training camp, now you’re using your off time to block scenes and cook for me. Woman, you cannot live on work alone.”
He shifts, gently nudging me to lie back against the pillow while he gets up. I protest weakly, but he just laughs—low and raspy—and pulls a folded quilt from the armchair.
Then he kneels in front of me.
“Lift,” he murmurs, and I do. His hands are gentle as he tucks the blanket around me.
“You just going to tuck me in like a child?” I blink up at him, confused and full of something I can’t name. “No innuendo about how little sleep there should be at an adult sleepover?”
His smile is slow. “If I took you to bed right now, you’d fall asleep mid-kiss and it would significantly damage my ego.” He pauses, eyes trailing over me in a way that’s still reverent. “Besides, if I mess this up, I may never get those tamales again.”
I stare at him. “You’re ridiculous.”
He reaches out, gently brushing a strand of hair from my face. “I’m growing on you. Admit it.”
He is. But damn if I’m saying that out loud. “I’ll just catch a quick nap then I’ll head back to my cabin.
“Sure, spitfire.”
I close my eyes.
Then crack one open to see him looking down at me. “You’re giving creeper vibes,” I tell him.
He laughs. Returns his attention to the television. “Sorry. Proceed with the napping.”