The taco stand, however, has a long line. No one looks at us as we wait, huddled in our hoodies against the wind that’s blowing over the sand. The rich scent of grilled meats and frying vegetables has my stomach grumbling.
“See?” I say, looking down at my stomach. “He’s just as noisy.”
“Ass,” she mutters.
“That’s Mr. Asshat,” I remind her with a nudge of my elbow.
Delilah smirks and then rests her shoulder against mine. I’m inordinately pleased.
At the stand, I let her order, insisting that since she knows the menu, she can pick what’s best. Taking our beers, I secure a seat at one of the picnic tables set under multicolored string lights.
Delilah returns with two boxes and sits at my side. The selection is simple: a pork, a fish, and a beef for each of us. It’s how they’re made that makes me groan.
“Damn,” I say around my bite. “That’s good.”
“So good.” She licks a drop of aioli at the corner of her lip as juices run along her fingers and drip into the box.
We eat in relative silence, enjoying the food and our beers. Around us, families, couples, and groups of singles chatter and laugh. Contentment steals over me. I don’t have a lot of experience with happiness. But I soak it in.
“You see that place over there,” Delilah says, breaking our easy silence.
“The blue shack of a restaurant?” I squint at the faded sign. “An old crab house?”
“Yeah.” She wipes her fingers with a napkin. “Apparently, they weren’t any good, and you can’t expect to stay open serving crap. Especially next to this place.”
Delilah stares at the old place, her expression thoughtful like maybe she’s seeing it in a way I can’t. Tension visibly creeps along her shoulders when she turns back to me. “I’ve been thinking about opening a restaurant there.”
Carefully I set down my beer. This place is ten minutes from my house. She’ll be near me. I want that. Fiercely. I want her happiness more. “Would it be a good idea to open next to such a popular place?”
“I wouldn’t be serving tacos, so it isn’t direct competition. It would benefit both, I think, because people who love good food would be drawn here.” Her hands start to move as she talks, getting more excited. “I’d strip that awful blue paint off, bring it back to an old beach-cottage look. I’m not certain about the menu, but it’s starting to take shape in my head. Comfort food, but not heavy. Quality ingredients, a mix between simple and complex—” She stops, and her lips quirk. “I’m boring you.”
“Hardly. I like hearing you talk.” I take her hand and thread our fingers. Because I can. Finally. “It’ll work, Tot.”
She shrugs but can’t hide her smile. “Well, there’s a lot of stops between an idea and reality. I don’t have the money or a backer—”
“I’ll do it. I’ll back you. Hell, I’ll buy the place if you want.”
“No. Macon, no.” She softens her rejection by leaning against me. “It’s a generous, lovely offer, but I don’t want that between us. Business has to stay business.”
“And we’re not business.” We started off that way. Until now, I didn’t truly comprehend how much I wanted that arrangement behind us. It does funny things to my insides to hear her say she’s here because she wants me, not what I could do for her, not because of that damn deal.
“No,” she says happily. “We’re not.”
“Okay.” I take another look at the restaurant. “But I can still help. I know a guy—”
Delilah bursts out laughing. “Oh my God. Please don’t say he’s in the mob.”
I tweak her earlobe. “No, smart-ass. He’s a restaurateur who happens to be looking to new expansion.”
That gets her attention. “Who?”
“Ronan Kelly.”
“You know Kelly?” She makes a sound of amusement. “What am I saying? Of course you do. Hot successful men run in packs.”
My chin rests against the top of her head. “Hold on a second. What’s this about hot?”
“Ronan Kelly is hot. Insanely hot. It would be hard not to notice that.”
I grunt. “I’m not sure I like that you notice.”
“I have eyes, don’t I?” She runs a finger along the top of my thigh. The muscle tightens in response. Her hum is pleased. “Macon Saint, jealous. Who would have thought?”
“It’s not the first time with you,” I admit in a low voice.
But she hears. And grins. Because Delilah is evil.
“North?” She huffs out a laugh. “We have zero chemistry. If you were thinking clearly, you would have seen—”
“Not North,” I cut in. “Although, yes, I was a touch irritated.”
Delilah snorts but then stops and looks up at me. “Who, then?”
It’s my turn to grin. “Matty Hayes.”
“Matty Hayes? From high school? Seriously?”
“The way you used to stare at him like he was a god?” I roll my eyes, fighting a laugh. “Annoyed the hell out of me.”