Page 138 of My Heart Still Beats
And I still see me.
I’ll never be the Tessa of old. Experience has changed her.
But I don’t have to be sad-and-depressed Tessa, either.
I can be a new Tessa. New Tessa doesn’t need to hide behind makeup. New Tessa appreciates her own natural beauty.
Satisfied, I leave the bathroom, keeping my feet bare. The combination of tight camisole and boyfriend jeans works well with bare feet, especially when my toes are freshly painted.
I head to my kitchenette, pull the enchiladas out of the refrigerator, remove the foil, and slide them into my preheated oven.
I wish I’d had time to make homemade refried beans, but I didn’t. That’s a twenty-four-hour project, starting with letting pinto beans cook on low in a slow cooker overnight.
So I cheat. I open a can of refried beans, throw them in a pot over the stove, and add some salsa, mixing until they’re heated. Then I place them in a ceramic dish, shred some cheese on top, and slide them in the oven with the enchiladas.
I couldn’t find any good-looking avocados at the market, so no homemade guacamole tonight. But I did put together some pico de gallo with a jalapeno added for spiciness, which I’ll serve with tortilla chips.
Rita shuffles around my feet. I pick her up. “Hello, Margarita.” I kiss her little head. “Any other time when I made this meal, I would be making your namesake cocktail.”
Margaritas.
Rita.
Saint Rita. The patron saint of something that speaks to me now.
I know Ben likes Wild Turkey, but hediddrink a margarita in Jamaica the first night.
I wish I had some Wild Turkey…
I don’t, but I do have the ingredients to make margaritas. It may not be what Ben wants, but it’s been so long since I’ve had a margarita, and I think I’d like one.
The Skye cocktail in Jamaica was quite good, but not as good as a margarita.
I put Rita down. “What the heck?” I say out loud. “Let’s make some margaritas, Rita.”
I take my bottle of reposado from the small cupboard above my refrigerator and grab several limes out of the fruit drawer. Sugar and triple sec are next.
I halve the limes and juice them until I have one full cup of lime juice.
Then I grab my blender and mix everything together.
I’m a purist. I don’t drink my margaritas frozen. I mix them, and then I shake them over ice in a cocktail shaker.
That makes them cold but doesn’t dilute them.
But I wait. I’ll shake them once Ben gets here and then—
Rita barks at a knock on the door.
“He’s here, Rita!”
I pad to the door in my bare feet, and I open it.
And Ben—gorgeous Ben—comes right in.
Before I know it, he grabs my face, and he touches his lips to mine.
Chapter Forty-Two
