Page 135 of The Moment You Know

David watched the three dots appear, then disappear, then re-appear.

PAIGE: I appreciate the offer, but I was thinking I’d make shrimp tacos, instead.

DAVID: Are you sure? That sounds great, but I don’t want you to go to any trouble.

PAIGE: I’m sure. And it’s no trouble.

DAVID: Okay. See you Wednesday at 6 p.m.

Chapter 51

When David arrived at Paige’s apartment on Wednesday, he didn’t know which was more distracting—the sight of her in rolled-up boyfriend jeans and a fuzzy white sweater, or the spicy aroma of shrimp tacos.

“That smells fantastic,” he said, deciding it would be more prudent to focus on the food as he followed her into the kitchen. Sputnik was sitting on the island and David went over and rubbed the cat’s head, smiling when he was rewarded with full-throated purring. “That being said, you really didn’t have to cook, you know.”

“I know, but I love to cook,” she reminded him as she took two plates from a cupboard and set them on the counter next to where she had all the ‘fixings’ lined up: tortillas, chopped cilantro, cole slaw, black beans, salsa, guacamole, and blackened shrimp. “I cook whenever I can. And when I have leftovers, I usually share them with my neighbor, Dolly, across the hall.”

“Well, you won’t have any leftovers tonight,” he promised with gusto.

“That’s okay. This is probably too spicy for her, anyway. She’s seventy.”

He almost laughed. “Still befriending old ladies?”

Paige elbowed him in the side. So what if she did? And so what if one of her favorite TV shows was The Golden Girls?

“That’s a yes,” he said.

She ignored him in favor of grabbing a tortilla to start making a taco and he quickly followed, putting two together for himself and then deciding to make a third, because it made more sense than coming back later. And when Paige wasn’t looking he popped a shrimp in his mouth, closing his eyes for a moment because it was that good.

“There’s beer in the fridge, if you want it,” she told him, as she headed in the direction of the living room. Sputnik immediately jumped down off the island and trailed behind her, tail straight up in the air. “And glasses are in the cabinet above the dishwasher,” she added, raising her voice a little.

Because it wasn’t right to have tacos without beer, he decided to grab one and when he saw the beer Paige had on hand, he paused in surprise. Expecting Corona, which she had always preferred, he instead found six individual bottles of craft beer. He perused the choices: Snake Handler IPA, Bitter Monk Belgian IPA, Moose Drool Brown Ale, Black Tuesday Imperial Stout, Cardigans of the Galaxy Double IPA, and Smuttynose Robust Porter.

Unless her taste in beer had changed drastically, she probably hadn’t bought any of this beer for herself, which meant she had gotten it specifically for him. Oddly touched, he grabbed the Moose Drool and a glass, then went to join Paige in the living room, where he found her on the loveseat. She was leaning over the coffee table and already eating, while Sputnik sat and silently watched her from his spot on the floor.

“Sorry for not waiting,” she mumbled, her mouth full. “I’m starving. Lunch didn’t really happen for me today.”

As had been the case on previous visits, there was music playing and as David sat down next to her, “Everlong” by the Foo Fighters faded out and was replaced by Green Day’s “Good Riddance”. He set his plate down and while he poured his beer in the glass, she opened the coffee table’s little drawer and pulled something out.

He looked at it and rolled his eyes—not because it was a coaster, but because it was emblazoned with the New England Patriots logo. “Still with the Patriots?” he asked, setting his glass down on it.

“Let me guess … you’re still blindly following the Saints?”

“You mean the team that has the best QB in the league? Yes.”

“How is Brees the best, with only one ring?”

“Refresh my memory. Didn’t that tool Brady just lose a Super Bowl?”

Paige blinked at him and set down her taco. “That tool has lost more Super Bowls than your ‘best in the league’ QB has even played in,” she pointed out, pretending to dust her hands off. “And, we’re done here.”

Shit, she was right. David stifled a laugh as she picked up her taco and resumed eating.

“So, when did you become a craft beer drinker?” he asked, changing the subject as he picked up his own taco. Without hesitation, he dug in, almost immediately making a manly hum of approval. “God, this is good.”

Instead of verbally answering, she gave him a side-eyed look.

“Oh,” he feigned surprise. “Did you buy those for me?”

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