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When a grandmother of four merrily calls out that it’s time to do shots? Just walk away.
Now here she was, leaning heavily on the front door, trying to fit her key into the damn lock. If only it would stop moving... Squinting, Roxie tried again.
The front door flew open. She bolted upright with a yelp.
“Where the hell have you been, Roxanne?”
Joe stood in the entryway, hands on his hips, mouth pressed into an angry line. Even in her alcohol-addled state, she could see the frustration radiating from him in waves.
It took a few moments for her to realize he’d spoken because there was something really, really yummy about an irritated Joe these days. The way his shoulders tensed and his expression got all broody had heat flooding low in her belly.
She cleared her throat. “Sorry. What was the question again?”
“Where. Have. You. Been?”
“Working, of course.”
* * *
Joe’s eyes narrowed as she sailed past him.
It was damn near midnight, and instead of being tucked in bed and sound asleep after a long-ass day of work—the woman had woken up atthree, for fuck’s sake!—Roxie was... giggly.
He frowned. Something was off. The Roxie he knew was sarcastic, exasperating, stubborn, impulsive, scattered, gorgeous, and sexy...and smart, loyal, hilarious, beautiful, and kind. But giggly? That didn’t make the list.
He looked out at the empty driveway. “Rox, where’s your car?”
“June dropped me off.”
“Okaaay...” He scratched his head. “But where’s your car?”
“At the café,” she called from the kitchen. “Are you hungry? Because I’m starving.”
He shut the door and headed in her direction. Coming to a stop beneath the kitchen archway, he watched her pull a pie from the fridge. His eyebrows hit his hairline and his jaw flat-out dropped when she took a bite. Directly from the dish.
Shit. Something was definitely off. Any other day, she would have his head if she caught him eating from the pie plate. For as long as he could remember, she’d spouted nonsense about respecting her pies and eating them “off a plate like a civilized human.”
“And why, Rox, is your car parked at your shop?”
With a spoonful of blueberry pie at her lips, she looked at him like he was an idiot. “Because I have a parking spot there.”
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath in, counting to ten before releasing it. Feeling more centered, he made the time-out signal with his hands. “Let’s start over, okay? I thought you had a catering job tonight?”
She nodded, mouth full of pie.
Damn, she was cute. But still. “So why didn’t you drive your car home from it then?”
She held up a finger as she chewed.
He waited. His patience was being held together by a frayed string as she gulped down a glass of water.
Finally, she said, “Well, I couldn’t drive now, could I?”
He counted to ten again. “Why not?”
“Because after the first round of shots, Mrs. Abbot broke out Sylvester Stallone’s shot ski.” She shuddered. “Good god, can those women drink.”
His mouth opened, then closed.Sylvester Stallone’s shot ski?
