“Seeds or no seeds?”
“I like it hot. Leave in a few.”
Jaime licked his lips, and Alma’s own lips quivered in response. She wanted those lips on her again. And not just on her mouth, but on her neck, on her chest, on her breasts, on her—
Focus!
The blade of the sharp knife sliced into the jalapeños quicklyand efficiently. He chopped them into tiny, symmetrical pieces with finesse. “I’m impressed with your knife skills.”
“I spent my entire life working in restaurants, remember?” he teased.
She pursed her lips and nodded. Mexican restaurants. Then why didn’t he pick up Spanish? Didn’t he want to communicate with the other cooks? The dishwashers? She wasn’t going to bring it up. Yet.
“I do.” The restaurateur and the tequiladora. They could collaborate.
Ay. Stop.
It was getting hot outside, and it wasn’t from the sunshine. She distracted herself by doing some prep work. “I’ll slice the cucumbers.”
She loved pepinos and the way they cooled off the heat from the jalapeños. She very thinly sliced them up and tossed them into the jar. “Okay, so you add those jalapeños in with the cucumbers and tequila. And then you muddle them.” She offered him a spoon.
His hand brushed against hers, and he grabbed the utensil. “Muddle?”
“Yes, muddle. Pretty much mashing them. The crushing helps to infuse the liquor with the other ingredients.”
He stared at her old wooden spoon. “Don’t you have a fancy tool for that?”
“There are many expensive muddlers and I have plenty at the bar, but at home, I just prefer an old-fashioned spoon.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. Probably because I first learned how to make drinks using a spoon. I used to make cocktails for all my dad’sfriends and my relatives. There’s something nostalgic and simple about it.”
He brushed a lock of hair off her face.
Her breath hitched.
“I love that.”
“What?”
“That you found a way to do something you love that originated as something you did for your family.”
Alma gulped. She had never thought of her journey like that. Jaime almost made it seem predestined that she would end up where she was now. She liked his idea—it almost romanticized her life.
“Thank you.”
He stared at her for a moment, smiling. “You’re welcome.”
She poured tequila into the jar, and Jaime began to muddle. He was doing an okay job, but he kept missing a corner of the glass. She resisted the urge to take over. His brow was furrowed, and he was trying so hard. She didn’t want to micromanage him.
She took the lid and sealed the jar. “Normally I would let this sit for up to eight hours, but let’s just make it now so we can have it with dinner.”
“Sounds good to me. I’m starving. I’ve been craving your mom’s cooking.”
“She is a great cook. Well, the margaritas won’t be as good as they could’ve been.”
Jaime stared into her eyes. “They will be great. What’s the next step?”
