Chapter 14 #2
"Mr. Hartley," the woman at the register said when we walked in. "And Dr. Miller. Together." She smiled like she'd just confirmed a rumor.
"Small town," Caitlin murmured as we grabbed a cart.
"Very small town."
"By tomorrow, everyone will know we went grocery shopping together."
"Let them talk." I put my hand on the small of her back as we headed toward produce. "I don't mind."
She glanced up at me, something soft in her expression. "Me neither."
The produce section became our first challenge.
"Avocados," Caitlin announced, stopping in front of a bin of them. "We need good ones for guacamole."
I picked one up. "This looks fine."
"That's rock hard." She took it from me, pressing gently near the stem. "See? No give at all. It won't be ripe for another three days."
"How do you know this?"
"My mom. She's very serious about avocados." Caitlin sorted through the bin, testing each one. "You want it to yield slightly when you press it. Not mushy—that means it's overripe. Just a little give." She held one up triumphantly. "Like this."
"I'm learning so much."
"Stick with me, Hartley. I'll teach you everything I know about produce." She tossed three perfect avocados into the cart. "Which, admittedly, is limited to avocados and not much else."
We grabbed onions, jalapenos, limes, and a bunch of fresh cilantro. Tomatoes for pico de gallo. Garlic. A bag of shredded cheese for the queso fundido.
"Salsa," Caitlin said, steering us toward the Mexican food aisle. "I was thinking we'd make fresh, but honestly? I'd rather doctor up a jar. Add fresh cilantro, some lime juice, maybe more jalapeno."
"That's allowed?"
"It's encouraged. My cooking philosophy is 'work smarter, not harder.'" She grabbed a jar of chunky salsa and added it to the cart. "Life's too short to dice that many tomatoes."
"I like this philosophy."
"It's served me well." She surveyed the cart. "Ground beef. Tortillas. Cheese for the queso. What are we missing?"
"Margaritas."
Her face lit up. "Yes. Essential. Can't have taco night without margaritas."
The liquor section was small but adequate. We debated tequila—she preferred silver, I'd always bought reposado—and compromised by getting both.
"Triple sec," she said, scanning the shelves. "And we have the limes already. Do you have a blender?"
"Somewhere in the kitchen. Grandma Mae left everything."
"Then we're set."
At the register, Mrs. Delgado—according to her name tag—rang us up with obvious interest.
"Mexican night?" she asked, eyeing our haul.
"Tacos and margaritas," Caitlin confirmed.
"Good choice." Mrs. Delgado smiled at me. "Your grandmother used to make the best tamales at Christmas. She'd bring them into the store every year."
"I didn't know that."
"Oh yes. Her and Rosa—Hector's wife—they'd spend two days making them together." She handed me my card back. "It's nice to see someone cooking in that kitchen again."
I thought about that on the drive back. My grandmother and Rosa, making tamales together. The kitchen as a gathering place, a place of warmth and tradition. I wondered what other stories this town held about my family—stories I'd never thought to ask about.
"You okay?" Caitlin asked, her hand finding my knee.
"Yeah. Just thinking about all the things I don't know about this place. About my own family."
"You're learning. That's what matters."
"One avocado at a time."
She laughed. "Exactly."
Back at the ranch, we took over the kitchen.
Caitlin put me in charge of margaritas while she started on the guacamole. I found Grandma Mae's blender in a cabinet—ancient but functional—and loaded it with ice, tequila, triple sec, and fresh lime juice.
"Salt or no salt?" I asked over the whir of the blender.
"Salt. Always salt."
I rimmed two glasses with lime and salt, poured the margaritas, and delivered one to her at the cutting board.
"To Mexican night," I said, raising my glass.
"To having the house to ourselves." She clinked her glass against mine, her eyes warm.
We drank. The margarita was good—strong, tart, the way I liked it.
"Okay," Caitlin said, setting down her glass. "Guacamole. Watch and learn."
She halved the avocados with practiced ease, scooped out the flesh, and dropped it into a bowl. Then came the smashing—aggressive, enthusiastic smashing with a fork.
"You're very violent with that," I observed.
"Stress relief." She grinned. "Also, I like it chunky, not smooth. If I wanted smooth, I'd buy it from the store."
She added diced onion, minced jalapeno, cilantro, lime juice, and a generous pinch of salt. Tasted it. Added more lime.
"Try," she said, holding out the fork.
I tried. It was perfect—creamy, bright, with just enough heat.
"Okay, you can cook."
"I can make guacamole. There's a difference." She moved on to the salsa, dumping the jarred version into a bowl and adding fresh cilantro, a squeeze of lime, and extra jalapeno. "See? Doctored. Takes thirty seconds and tastes twice as good."
"Work smarter, not harder."
"Now you're getting it."
I took over the taco meat while she prepped the queso fundido—cheese and chorizo in a cast iron skillet, destined for the oven. We moved around each other easily, passing ingredients, bumping hips, stealing sips of each other's margaritas.
At one point, she reached past me for the cumin, her body pressing against my back. I turned, caught her around the waist, and kissed her—slow and unhurried, tasting lime and tequila on her lips.
"Mmm," she said against my mouth. "If you keep doing that, dinner's going to burn."
"Worth it."
"Not when I'm this hungry." She pushed me gently back toward the stove. "Focus, Hartley. Meat's going to overcook."
I refocused. Barely.
Twenty minutes later, we had a spread that would've impressed even Jake: seasoned taco meat, warm tortillas, fresh guacamole, doctored salsa, bubbling queso fundido with chorizo, and a pitcher of margaritas that was already half empty.
We ate at the kitchen island instead of the big dining table—sitting on stools, knees touching, making tacos with our hands and not caring about the mess.
"This is perfect," Caitlin said, dragging a chip through the queso. "I needed this."
"The food?"
"All of it. The cooking. The normalcy." She took a sip of her margarita. "With everything going on—Cole, the security team, all the tension—it's nice to just... be. You know?"
I did know. The past few weeks had been a constant state of high alert. Waiting for the next incident. Watching for threats. But tonight, with Caitlin beside me and the kitchen warm and full of good smells, I could almost forget all of it.
"We should do this more," I said. "Cook together. Have normal couple things."
"Normal couple things." She smiled. "I like the sound of that."
"Maybe next time you can teach me more about avocados."
"I've exhausted my avocado knowledge. You'll have to call my mom for advanced lessons."
"I'd like that," I said, and I meant it. Meeting her parents. Being part of her life in that way.
She looked at me, something shifting in her expression. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
She leaned over and kissed me—soft, sweet, tasting like lime and salt and something that felt a lot like the future.
We left the dishes in the sink and took the last of the margaritas out to the porch swing.
The night was warm, the sky thick with stars. Somewhere in the barn, a horse nickered softly. The security team was out there somewhere, watching, but it didn't feel intrusive. Just safe.
Caitlin tucked herself against my side, her head on my shoulder. We swayed gently, the swing creaking beneath us.
"I like this," she said quietly.
"The porch?"
"All of it. The ranch. The chaos. The people." She looked up at me. "You."
"I like you too."
"Good. Because you're stuck with me now."
"That a promise?"
"That's a promise."
I kissed her under the stars, slow and thorough, until she made a soft sound against my mouth that sent heat pooling low in my belly.
"Inside," she murmured. "Now."
We barely made it upstairs.
I had her pressed against the bedroom door before it even closed, my mouth on her neck, her hands fumbling with my belt. She tasted like lime and salt and want, and I couldn't get enough of her.
"Blaine." My name came out ragged. "Bed."
I walked her backward until her knees hit the mattress, then followed her down, covering her body with mine. Moonlight spilled through the windows, painting her skin silver as I pulled her shirt over her head.
"You're beautiful," I said, tracing the curve of her breast, watching her shiver. "Every time I see you like this, I can't believe you're real."
"Less talking." She arched into my touch. "More doing."
I took my time anyway. Kissed my way down her body—her collarbone, the swell of her breasts, the soft plane of her stomach. She squirmed beneath me, fingers twisting in the sheets, breath coming faster.
"Blaine, please?—"
I hooked my fingers in her jeans, tugged them down along with her underwear, and settled between her thighs. The first stroke of my tongue made her gasp. The second made her moan. By the third, her hand was in my hair, holding me where she wanted me.
I loved this—loved the sounds she made, the way her thighs trembled, the way she said my name like a prayer and a curse all at once. I worked her higher, reading every hitch of her breath, every roll of her hips, until she shattered against my mouth with a cry that echoed off the walls.
Before she could catch her breath, I shed the rest of my clothes and reached for the nightstand. She watched me roll on the condom, her eyes dark, her chest still heaving.
"Come here," she said, reaching for me.
I went. Sank into her in one slow thrust that made us both groan. She wrapped her legs around my waist, pulling me deeper, and for a moment I just stayed there—buried inside her, forehead pressed to hers, breathing her in.
"Okay?" I asked.
"More than okay." She rolled her hips, impatient. "Move."
I moved. Started slow, savoring every inch of her, but she wasn't having it. Her nails raked down my back, urging me faster, harder. I gave her what she wanted—what we both wanted—driving into her until the headboard knocked against the wall and neither of us cared.
"Yes," she gasped. "Right there—don't stop?—"
I didn't stop. Reached between us to find the spot that made her clench around me, worked it in tight circles until her whole body went taut.
"Blaine—" Her voice broke on my name as she came again, pulling me over the edge with her. I buried my face in her neck and let go, pleasure crashing through me in waves that left me shaking.
We lay there afterward, tangled together, heartbeats gradually slowing. I rolled to the side, pulling her with me so her head rested on my chest.
"Wow," she said eventually.
"Good wow?"
"Very good wow." She traced lazy patterns on my chest. "Margaritas and orgasms. Best Friday night ever."
I laughed. "I thought it was best taco night ever."
"That too." She propped herself up to look at me, her hair a mess, her lips swollen, her eyes soft. "Best everything night ever."
I tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "We'll do it again. And again. As many times as you want."
"The tacos or the sex?"
"Both."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
She settled back against me with a contented sigh, and I held her until her breathing slowed and evened out. Outside, the ranch was quiet—the security team watching, the horses sleeping, the stars wheeling overhead.
For the first time in weeks, I fell asleep without worrying about what tomorrow would bring.