Page 65 of Great White
“At least the eggs survived.” I pick up the lid on the frying pan.
Tate peers in. “Damn, that smells good.”
“It’s one of the few things I can cook. Stefania taught me.” Scrambled eggs with pork, peppers, and onions, her family’s secret blend of southwest spices, and a certain brand of Tex-Mex paste. “Too bad I burn the tortillas every time.”
Tate’s handsome face perks up. “Give me one second.” He disappears back into the bedroom. A minute later he’s back, minus the pillow and plus a pair of boxer briefs. “Let me show you.” He turns on a burner.
“What are you doing?”
“Trust me,Tiburona. I have a few tricks up my sleeve.”
He adjusts the flame on medium heat, then tosses a tortilla right on top of the fire. I watch equally anxious and fascinated as he cooks the tortilla like a s’more at a campfire. After only a few seconds, he uses the tongs I left on the counter to flip it over. The cooked side is a beautiful bubbly and light brown. Not an angry, carbonized mess. After a few more seconds, he pulls it from the heat and drops it onto an awaiting plate. “¡Ya está!”
“Impressive.”
“It’s a trick my abuela used to use.”
“Want to do that to the rest so we can eat?”
“Coming right up.” He flips one of the tortillas like a flapjack.
I scoop out the scrambled egg mix onto a plate and move it over to the kitchen counter where we can sit and eat. I throw some clean plates and cutlery down, and grab the shredded cheese and pico de gallo, too. Taking a quick look around the kitchen I realize how inanely domestic and normal this breakfast is. How this whole situation is. Just two people who are falling quickly in love doing a mundane thing like having breakfast. Could this really be my life? Just me and Tate, no cartel, no cocaine, no illegal responsibilities, no Stefania. Just us on a farm with chickens and goats? I don’t know if I’m sold on that idea, but if everything I’ve worked for is going to fall apart right before my very eyes, why the fuck not?
My heart starts to beat too fast for the comfortable environment.
You tried that once already, remember?my subconscious taunts me.He nearly killed you.
I shiver, trying to banish the unwelcome memories.
“Dove, you good?” Tate asks as he puts down the freshly browned plate of tortillas.
“Fine.” I fake a smile, but he isn’t buying it. He swiftly moves to stand next to me, rubbing my back.
“You sure?” he questions, but he doesn’t push. I stare into the warmest brown eyes I have ever encountered and quickly catch my breath. Tate isn’t Brock. Tate isn’t like any man I have ever met. And I need to keep reminding myself of that. Last night was magical, almost holy. I’ve been screaming in silence for as long as I can remember, and Tate is the first person to ever really hear me. Maybe he is worth taking a chance on? Besides, I’m not the same person I was five years ago. I’m stronger now. I know how to fight back. But the only thing I find myself fighting when it comes to him is my heart. It’s stubborn, but softening. In his arms, I feel safe. I have trust.
My scars aren’t my shackles anymore.
“Did you really mean what you said yesterday? About a fresh start . . . with you?”
Tate perks up. “If last night didn't convince you of that, I don’t know what will. I damn near told you . . .” He clears his throat, catching himself.
“Told me what?” I press.
“Dove,” he says my name with great care. “I know you’ve had a tough past with men. I just don’t want to say anything to scare you off. Not before you’re ready to hear it.”
“Maybe I’m ready now. Maybe I already know.”
“Maybe you do. But when I say it, I want to know the feelings are reciprocated. I want to know I have all of you.”
“Do I have all of you?” Tate hesitates to answer. He’s. . .scared. I have scared plenty of men before, but none of them this way. “Do I?”
“You know you do. You don’t have to ask.”
That answer brings a little smile to my lips. All these new feelings are so foreign. I’m terrified of them, but I like them. I like him. No, I love him.
“Can I ask one question?”
Tate nods.
