Page 75 of Sure Shot
“Not me,” Anton says, strutting into the room. “I’m too tired to find a playmate. I’m going to be face down on the sofa, watching reruns and shoving Doritos into my facehole.”
“Sexy,” Silas teases.
I do another light set of presses and then sit up again. I return Bess’s text.What if you leave the food to me? I want Tex-Mex.I’ll make it happen. And then I add,Can’t wait to see you. Because it’s a hundred percent true.
Rationally, I know it’s way too soon to jump into a relationship. When I told Bess I was never getting married again, I meant it.
But a few hours later I’m standing outside her apartment building at five minutes to seven, pressing the buzzer like a junkie who needs his next fix. And it’s hard to remember why I shouldn’t go all in with Bess. Spending time with her is the brightest part of my week.
The door latch releases, and I enter the building and jog up the stairs.
“You’re early!” she calls from the bedroom when I push open her apartment door.
“Sorry! Just a couple minutes.”
“Oh, I don’t care. I just like to bust your chops.” She appears in the doorway, wearing tight jeans and a Colorado Avalanche T-shirt, and my heart thumps a little harder.
“Missed you,” I blurt out.
Her expression softens. “Same here.”
“How was your trip to Vermont?”
“It was good. They always are. What did you bring?” She eyes my two large shopping bags—one in either hand. “How hungry are you, anyway?”
“Veryhungry,” I drawl, giving her tight T-shirt a very appreciative glance. “I can’t decide what I want first.”
She gives me a shy smile. “Let me know when you figure it out.”
I carry my bags into her tiny kitchen and set them on the counter. It occurs to me that I should get the dinner started before I seduce and debauch her. I take out a rotisserie chicken, a bunch of tortillas, sauces, toppings and various cheeses. And then I take out the pan that I bought to cook in, because Bess doesn’t own pots and pans. It’s hilarious.
I’m preheating the oven when she comes in, her face full of questions. “What are you doing?”
“Making enchiladas. I can’t find any in New York that taste how I like.”
“Really? I’ll bet there’s authentic Mexican food somewhere in New York.”
“That’s the problem. I don’twantauthentic Mexican,” I tell her. “I want Texas Tex-Mex, with gooey yellow cheese all over it.” My stomach rumbles at the thought. “Want to help?”
“Sure,” Bess says. “But I’m the kind of girl who helps by setting the table and keeping the beer cold. If you ask me to dice an onion, be prepared to provide detailed instructions.”
“We all have our strengths. Can you shred up this chicken meat?”
“I can probably manage that.” She grabs a breast and pulls off the skin. “How, uh, small should the pieces be? I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“It couldn’t matter less.” I put down the package of tortillas I was unwrapping and pull her close. “I don’t care if you can’t even boil water.”
She kisses me on the jaw. “That’s nice of you to say, because it’s a little embarrassing. I notice you brought your own pan. Smart man.”
“Haters gonna hate, Bess. Fuck ’em.”
“Did you just become the only thirty-two-year-old man to quote Taylor Swift?” She lifts her pretty face and studies me.
“Maybe I did. The girl has a point with that song. Now get back to work, or dinner will never be finished.”
After assembling my ingredients, I roll shredded chicken, cheese, and beans into a dozen tortillas. I place them in a tidy row in the baking pan. Then I drizzle two whole packages of enchilada sauce everywhere, followed by loads of yellow cheese and some diced chilis. I cover the pan and slide it into the oven.
When I look up, Bess is watching me with a soft expression on her face. “What?” I ask. “Did I do something funny?”
