Page 23 of Anywhere with You
“Ew,” I said, “and what?”
Cara laughed. I knew she had to be skimming and skipping the gross and rude comments and just reading me the nice ones. It was sweet.
“This one just says,Bidi Bidi Bom Bom.”
Now I was laughing. “Because you look like Selena!”
“The Latina singer? You know I’m white, right?”
I looked at her, my mouth falling open.
She laughed. “I’m kidding. Well, mostly. My grandmother is Irish.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be redheaded and freckled, lass?”
Cara grinned. “My father was Irish and Puerto Rican. My mother’s family was originally from Mexico and has lived in New Orleans for seven generations. We can all cook enchiladasandboudin.”
“Well,” I said, “you still look a lot like Selena.”
Cara pulled down the visor and looked in the mirror. “No way,” she said.
“How can you not see it? I’m buying you some red lipstick next time we stop. You’ll see.”
I glanced over at her again, watching her pout her luscious lips in the mirror. The rest of her could be as attractive as Badger’s butt, and it would still be difficult to ignore those lips. Her tongue flicked out to moisten them, and I…I had to focus on keeping the car inside the lines.
For a moment, I let myself imagine the feel of her mouth against my throat and had to take a few deep breaths, quietly, so she didn’t realize the effect she was having on me.
“Don’t worry,” I said, trying and failing not to glance over again. “It’s a compliment.”
“Being compared to Selena? Of course it’s a compliment.”
Then she shocked me so completely that I almost drove off the road, pursing her lips briefly for the mirror and breaking out in a perfect, full volume rendition of “Bidi Bidi Bom Bom.”
Chapter Twelve
“Do your parents ever cook Indian food?” Cara asked.
We had a six-hour drive ahead of us, according to Sir David Attenborough, and not much to see besides scrubby desert. From the way Cara had her seat leaned back and her hands behind her head, I figured that she felt like I did, tired from travel, but more relaxed the farther we got down the road. There weren’t many days in my adult life when I felt completely free from all responsibility. Besides, you know, not driving into a ditch.
“Only my dad is Indian,” I said, “and he is very proud of his ability to scramble an egg. Indian cuisine is a little out of his range. My mom is an excellent cook, but unless it’s something you can find at a steakhouse or a grocery store bakery, she’s not going to try. In her case, I don’t think she lacks skill, just an adventurous culinary spirit.”
She raised her eyebrows at my word choice. I knew because I glanced at her as I said it, then turned quickly back to the road.
“Huh, okay,” she said.
“Do your parents cook at all?” I asked.
“My dad did a lot before he died last year. Yes, condolences accepted and all that. Basically his cooking is the only thing I miss. He was kind of an ass. My mom is brilliant in the kitchen. Really, you’ll have to come with me sometime when I visit. Have you ever had truly amazing Cajun food? Let me rephrase that, have you ever had five times the amount of truly amazing Cajun food that you can possibly eat, and eaten it anyway?”
I laughed. “No, but I’m definitely tagging along to your mom’s house.”
“Her calas are my favorite breakfast, ever, and I have had literal dreams about her pompano en papillote.”
“Why is my mouth watering? I don’t even know what those things are.”
“You don’t, but your future self knows and is broadcasting the joy backward in time to your taste buds. That’s how good it is.”
I laughed.
