Page 38 of Of Pucking Course

“Sam, come on. You’re driving me home. You don’t need to pay for my food too.”

His gaze sharpens as he looks at me. “I said no. Put your credit card away.”

His voice is a soft, bossy growl that makes me tingle all over.

I really, really,reallylike bossy Sam.

“Thank you,” I say softly.

He turns to pay the cashier at the window. A couple of minutes later, he hands Sam a paper bag and a drink.

Sam thanks him, then hands me the horchata and bag of tacos. The second the aroma of spices and meat hit my nostrils, I groan. My stomach growls.

Sam glances at my stomach as he pulls out of the drive-thru and back onto the street, then laughs.

I rip into the bag and pull out a fish taco. “How did you know I’d be starving for tacos?” I say around a mouthful.

He grins at the road ahead as he drives. “You always crave tacos after tequila.”

A warm feeling gathers in my chest at how he remembers that about me.

“I can’t believe you remembered my taco order,” I say, trying to keep my tone light as I remind myself of all the times Sam and I have hung out over drinks. He’s just being a good friend.

“Of course I remember. Hungry and drunk Dakota is mean, and the only way to get on your good side is with tacos.”

I burst out laughing. “Ouch.”

He glances over at me. “It’s okay. It’s cute.”

I bite my lip at hearing him calling me cute. “I’m cute when I’m mean?”

He nods while easing to a stop at a traffic light. “Yeah. When you frown, the bridge of your nose wrinkles. And when someone says something stupid or annoying, you roll your eyes right in front of them. When you’re drunk, it’s like you lose all patience for nonsense. You have the energy of a feisty, pissed-off chihuahua.”

I shove his shoulder, still laughing.

I finish my taco right as he pulls into the garage of his townhouse. Once he kills the engine, he hops out of the driver’s seat and jogs over to my side, opening the door for me. He takes the bag of food out of my hand and my purse.

“Do you need to hang on to me while you walk?” he asks.

I shake my head, heartened that he’s so concerned about me. “No, I’m okay.”

I take a long sip of horchata as I follow him inside to the kitchen.

He sets my purse and the food on top of the kitchen island and pulls out a stool for me. “Sit. Eat.”

My tummy flips at the bossy edge of his soft voice.

He grabs a plate from one of the floating shelves along the wall and serves up the rest of the tacos.

“There’s no way I’ll be able to eat all of these,” I say as I help myself to a shrimp taco.

“I know.” Sam takes the stool across from me and swipes a carnitas taco from the plate, demolishing half of it in a single bite.

I laugh. I finish half of my shrimp taco before I start to feel full. I hand it to Sam.

“I’m too full.”

He happily takes it and finishes it off while I sip my horchata. His gaze turns watchful as he looks at me.

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