Page 121 of Body Shot

“Do you think he has some other motive than trying to help?”

I consider that as I let the long breath out. “No.”

“Then why are you so upset?”

I tip my head back. “I don’t know. I just don’t like surprises. You know that.”

Carrie smiles. “Sure. I know that. I thought you were getting better about it, though.”

“I’m trying. I just don’t like him doing this without telling me.”

“What would you have said if he’d told you?”

“Um. I probably would have tried to talk him out of it.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know! It just feels . . .” I pause. “I don’t want him to think I’m after his money.”

“Oh, Hayden.” Carrie pats my shoulder. “I think he knows that. So here’s how this will go. You’ll go in there with an attitude of curiosity—you’ll ask questions, and not make assumptions. Okay?”

This is very good advice. I know that. I’m practical and sensible. I can see the logic in that approach. “Okay.”

We enter Conquistadors. The bar is full this Friday night, and we search out somewhere to sit.

“Two stools at the bar.” Carrie points.

The bar is good because then I can watch Beck all night. We head over and slide onto the stools.

Beck spots us and his smile, as always, makes my heart flutter and my belly do a little flip. I smile back at him despite my annoyance. He approaches us, looking so goddamn good in his low-slung dark jeans and black T-shirt, his hair pulled back. “Ladies,” he greets us, his eyes fastened on me. “Would you like to try our new special tonight?”

“Um.” Carrie and I exchange glances. “Sure.”

“It’s called El Diablo Picante.”

My eyebrows rise. “Is it.”

He grins and turns away to mix the cocktails. He twirls two Old Fashioned glasses in a saucer of lime juice then coats the rims in a mixture of something. I’m not sure what it is. Then he combines ingredients in a cocktail shaker, some unfamiliar, others—like the tequila and the squeezes of fresh lime and lemon juice—more recognizable. He adds ice and shakes it. I admire his biceps and chest muscles flexing as he does so.

“I feel you objectifying me,” he says with an arched eyebrow.

I grin. “Maybe.”

He strains the mixture into the glasses with a flourish and garnishes them with cinnamon sticks. Then he sets our drinks in front of us.

“What’s in this?” I reach for my glass.

“Tamarind concentrate, tequila, lime juice, simple syrup, lemon juice, and Cointreau.”

“And the rim?” Carrie pees at her drink.

“Sugar, salt, cayenne and cinnamon.”

“Interesting.” I take a sip. “Mmm!” The spice of the tequila mixes nicely with the orangey sweetness of the Cointreau, and the spicy sugar mix on the rim adds to the complex flavors. “This is really good!”

“You sound surprised.” Beck sets his hands on the edge of the bar.

“Not at all.”

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