Chapter 6
RACHEL
Negotiations were most certainly not Rachel’s strong suit. She held her own when it came to the boys, but Evelyn had her number.
To be honest, Rachel wasn’t sure who had won this round. It seemed to be a draw. Which probably meant that Evelyn won, because Evelyn always won.
Now everyone had left, and it wasn’t even eight, and Rachel was ready to collapse on the sofa and watch something mindless. Clicking on HGTV, she did just that. Her eyelids started to drift closed as Joanna Gaines helped remodel an already lovely home in Waco. Then the doorbell rang.
Because of course it did.
The only thing that had Rachel rising to see who it might be was the hope that it could be a tag team of Girl Scouts with cookies ready for purchase.
She pulled back the curtain. Travis stood there, a glow of porch light illuminating his broad back, since he had turned toward the street. She frowned. What on earth was he doing here?
Unlocking the door, she tugged it open.
“Travis?” she asked.
Well, wasn’t this just unexpected? Also, not entirely desired. Sofa, television, then maybe a Matthew McConaughey flick to get her in the mood for a little special alone time. The kind that involved her imagination and her hand.
“Hey.” Travis turned back to her, bashful, which wasn’t the usual for him. He held out a paper bag. “I thought you might appreciate some refreshments after the party.”
She opened the bag, looked in, and then glanced back up at him. He’d brought her tequila, limes, Grand Marnier, simple syrup, and the cute salt that came in a special plastic container with the sombrero lid.
Her heart squeezed, in the good way.
Gavin was right, she liked surprises—when they weren’t of the alive variety.
“You read my sign?” she asked.
He grinned, the bashful gone and his persistent charm taking its place. “I did. And I also figured you deserved a little present for standing up to my mom the way you did. She’s not used to that. It’s good for her.”
She liked the bashful better. The bashful was vulnerable, and Travis didn’t generally do vulnerable.
To be totally honest, the charisma put her on edge and made her wary of his intentions.
Most women probably fell all over themselves when he turned on that dark magic of his, but Rachel wasn’t most women.
That part of him was so polished, so determined… it wasn’t authentic.
The conversation stalled when Rachel didn’t say anything further. The vulnerability seeped back into his expression as they stood there together at her door—her inside with all the fixings for margaritas, him outside… alone.
“Come in,” she said immediately, like an idiot who became incompetent around a guy who sounded like a young Matthew McConaughey and had around the same build—the athletic kind that she admired.
Travis, however, didn’t move.
She’d invited him in, and he hadn’t moved. Crap.
The seventh-grade awkwardness had nothing on the way she felt right then.
She gestured into the house. Internally she warred with herself for overextending the invite. On the one hand, he’d brought her the makings of drinks. On the other, he was Travis.
“I mean…” The decision became easy because…tequila. “You’re welcome to come in, if you’d like.”
He stared at her for a moment, then a wry grin spread across his mouth.
Oh dear. That was nice.
She had to stop comparing Travis to movie stars just because he was being a good guy.
“I’d love to come in.” He followed her inside, latching the door behind him.
He pulled off his shoes and set them next to the sign she had made up that read, Shoes Off, Please and Thank You.
“It’s quiet.” She moved to the kitchen to unload the bag.
No one had ever taken her margarita sign seriously.
She hadn’t, either, when she first made it, but then as time went on and the boys got bigger and the intensity of life weighed heavier—she’d wished more than once that someone would leave her a basket of margarita fixings.
“It is,” he said, his deep voice seeming out of place in the quiet space of her home. “Quiet.”
“It’s never quiet.” She set the limes aside, finished unloading the bag, and folded it carefully before sliding it into the cabinet under the sink.
“Even when the boys sleep?” Travis pulled two glasses from the cupboard.
“You have no idea.” She did her best to keep her eyes open. It was hard, but she managed it. She snagged a cutting board for the limes and the cocktail shaker she wished she got to use more often.
“Do you want one or two?” Travis popped the top off the shaker and filled it with ice from the fridge. “Or a pitcher for later?”
Uh, a pitcher for later, duh. She pulled the shaker back into her grip. “I can mix them. You don’t have to.”
“Nope, the sign says margaritas, not the ingredients. I’m fixing them up for you.”
She looked at him from under her lashes. “I won’t ask you to do that.”
“You’re not asking.” He took the shaker from her.
“Before you start in on telling me how you can make them better, I’d like to point out that I do know how to do this. As a matter of fact, I take margarita making seriously.”
Oh, ouch. She’d definitely touched a nerve.
“On the rocks”—he held the shaker—“or in a blender? I should’ve asked that first.”
“Do you know how to use my blender?”
“I bet I can figure it out.”
“I don’t know. It’s one of those special Pampered Chef ones that can make soup or margaritas or whatever blended concoction you want as long as you press the right button.”
His eyes heated with an intensity Rachel hadn’t felt from a man in…wow, it’d been a while, huh?
“Then I’ll make sure to press the right button,” he said.
“Let’s go with the shaker kind.” Rachel decided immediately.
Travis Frank seemed to maybe, might be, hitting on her with margaritas, and those dimples, and that grin. And she was tired. And her boys were out for the night. And sometimes if she squinted while he was talking, he kind of looked like a superhero version of McConaughey.
“Thank you,” she announced when he started mixing. “For the margaritas.”
Yes, she was thanking Travis. Miracles could happen. It couldn’t have been the tequila, because she hadn’t had any yet, so probably just fatigue.
She wasn’t positive, but she was pretty sure that as he squeezed a lime into the container, he said, “You’re welcome.”
Life had exhausted her, and she had the night off and Travis Frank was making her margaritas and then she was going to sleep. She was going to sleep the hell out of this Friday night.
…
TRAVIS
Fun fact, Rachel was a lightweight. One and a half margaritas and she was an open book.
“My mama told me it was inappropriate to bring beverages of this sort to a child’s birthday party,” Travis said, holding up the remnants of his first, and last, margarita in a mock toast. “I take her guidance on social customs as gospel.”
“That’s ridiculous. You should bring margaritas whenever you want.” Rachel’s face filter had dissolved about halfway through her first margarita, so she looked appropriately appalled.
He held back a smile. Tipsy Rachel was a hoot.
“When, precisely”—she waved her fingertip in a circle—“did you first read my sign?”
“I don’t know.” His southern-boy senses prickled, telling him he was about to get in trouble. He itched at his collar. “Probably around the time you put it up.”
“That sign has been there for two years.” She set her margarita on the coffee table to more fully talk with her hands. “You’re telling me, I could’ve been having these margaritas this whole time?”
Well, yeah, he supposed so. He nodded.
“You should always read the signs and do as they request,” she said on a huff, falling back against the sofa cushions. “When you’re driving in traffic, you don’t just not stop because your mother told you the signs are optional.”
No, he always stopped. She had him there.
“You know, every time I come over, I do shut the front door.” He ran his thumb along his bottom lip. “As requested by that sign there.”
That got him a full Rachel smile.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “You know that Mama has lots of thoughts about lots of things.”
Rachel glanced to the ceiling, flopping her arms to her side. “She ruins everything.”
“It’s her gift,” he replied, his lips twitching at Rachel’s margarita-induced melodramatics.
The television murmured low in the background, the only light in the room coming from the screen—some show about houses that Rachel had turned on—the hallway, and the small bulb over the stove.
This, this was nice. She was Rachel. There were no expectations. They were friends. Maybe. Maybe they could be friends. Stranger things had happened that day—Gavin had even apologized.
“I’m coming to the lake,” Rachel declared.
He had a feeling that she was half-past drunk and into blitzed territory, but he was a gentleman, as per his mama, and didn’t say anything about that. Also, he’d provided the liquor, so it was his responsibility to ensure she didn’t do anything too ill-advised that night.
“I heard,” he replied. “It came through on the family text chain. Mama is thrilled.”
When his mama was thrilled, everyone could breathe a little easier.
“I have to get work done, so I’m going to need your help,” Rachel said. “Dane’s, too.”
Wait. Hold the fucking phone. Did blitzed Rachel ask for help? This was good intel. Still, sober Rachel probably wouldn’t want his help, so he’d need to tread carefully.
“Figured as much,” he said. “You know we’ve got you covered while we’re there. You can get all caught up.”
Rachel laid her head on the pillow, and her eyes started to drift closed. He didn’t say anything further, instead watching the show she’d left on the television. Now some beefy guy was attempting to build a house.
When he’d glanced back at her, she was snoring softly with her hands up under her cheek.
It was adorable. Shit.
Was he allowed to think of Rachel as adorable?
The woman was made of steel. The wind tried and tried to blow her life over, but she held steady.
She was a force of her own. The problem was, he had a hunch that if the wind got too strong, she’d need a net to catch her if she blew over.
He wasn’t sure that she had that net, and that made his chest ache.
He’d been able to fuck up all the time when he was younger because he had the Frank family safety net.
Maybe if she didn’t try so hard to do everything herself, she’d see that there was a ready-made group of people happy to catch her in her life.
He couldn’t quite say what came over him, but he reached for the green, fringed blanket folded over the arm of the sofa and covered her with it.
“Rach,” he whispered softly. “What’s the code for the door so I can lock up?”
He could’ve texted Molly for it, or Dane, or Gavin, but he figured it was easier just to see if she was awake enough to answer.
She was. She did.
Then she settled again.
He set his hand against the blanket covering her back and smiled. Then he frowned. Gavin was such an idiot. He’d had this. Had her.
He’d let it slip right through his fingers.
Travis shook his head. Everyone always said Trav was the idiot of the family. And, sure, maybe he’d earned that title. But it was his “responsible” brother who let his family slip through his fingers.
Travis sauntered into the kitchen, washed his glass, and fixed up a full pitcher of margaritas for Rachel.
He left them in the refrigerator with a note: Read the sign lots of times, apologies for the delay.
Because that was the truth.