Page 70 of Sex, Lies, and Margarita Mixes

“I assumed...”

Chase, bless his perfect naked torso, waves from the couch. “Hey, Mrs. Ruiz. You look lovely. Want a tamale?”

She eyes the plate like it’s an alien offering and dismisses him. “No. I’m not hungry.” Her tone says, “And even if I were, I wouldn’t eat anything you offered.” It pisses me off.

“More for me,” he says cheerfully, popping another one into his mouth, blissfully unaware—or uncaring—of her rudeness. “They’re homemade. Roxy bribed the vendor with tequila.”

“It’s called negotiating,” I add, crossing my arms.

Mother sets the casserole on the counter with a drawn-out sigh. “I brought your grandmother’s recipe. She was asking about you and said it’s time you learn to make a proper pot roast before someone thinks you were raised by wolves. Domestication is an attractive… trait.”

An attractive trait? To whom?

I’m married… to the gorgeous specimen of a man sitting on our couch.

And he’s never complained about my domesticity…

Is that even a word?

I deadpan. “Chase doesn’t complain about my domestic skills. Did she send that message by carrier pigeon or just etch it in stone herself?” My voice rises.

“Roxanne...” It’s long and drawn out. “Must you be so… uncouth? You were raised with manners.”

The fuck did she just say to me? She’s in my damn house, being rude and insulting to my husband, and I’m the one with bad manners?

Is she flipping serious?

Of course, she is.

“Thanks for the casserole.”

I glance at Chase, who’s biting back a smile as he licks his fingers clean. He mouths “good girl” at me, and I roll my eyes.

Okay, so he’s not unaware. Unlike me, he’s just not letting her get to him.

I need to try that tactic.

“So, mother, is this a culinary intervention or a social call? Why are you here?” I ask.

Her mouth purses as she delicately perches on a barstool. “Both. I thought it was time we… caught up.”

Oh god.

She doesn’t get “caught up.”

She audits.

Ten minutes later, we’re awkwardly arranged in the living room. Chase has reluctantly put on a shirt. I’m still mentally cataloging all the ways this ambush could implode.

Mother sips her passionfruit tea—the only one we had in the cabinet— like a Bond villain. Complete with rigid pinkie… Uh, we live in Texas, not freaking Britain. Chase is sipping bourbon like a saint. I’m sipping wine from a bottle Mari Lynn left here and wishing I was shooting tequila like a woman two sips away from losing her shit.

“How’s the food truck coming along?” she asks him, tone lightly sugared but sharp enough to cut glass.

“Good,” he answers easily. “Permits approved. Just ordered the wrap. It’ll be up and running as early as next month.”

She tilts her head and regards him. “And… you’re sure that’s stable?”

I bristle. “Mother?—”

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