If I Were You(35)

Fire shoots through my mouth, and bites a path down my throat. I gasp and almost choke. Oh my god, I said bring the fire, but I didn’t mean literally. I drop the taco and curl the fingers of one hand around the cloth napkin in my lap while my other hand goes to my throat.

Chris shoves his beer at me, and I don’t even hesitate. I grab it and gulp several, long, cold swallows and still I can barely breathe. When the heat finally eases, I am breathing hard. “I should never have said bring the fire.” I take another drink of his beer, the bitterness of the liquid somehow easing the burn. Sanity returns and I stare at the half empty bottle and then at Chris. I drank his beer, right after I made a fool of myself, and all but choked. I shove the beer toward him. “Sorry. I forgot myself.” Why do I keep embarrassing myself with this man?

He grins and slugs back a drink of the beer. My lips part and my fingers curl on both sides of the table as I watch the muscles of his throat bob. I am acutely aware of the intimacy of sharing his drink, of my mouth having been where his is now. He sets the nearly empty bottle down, his eyes locking with mine, the steam in his stare telling me I’m not alone in my thoughts.

“You really do have quite the knack for witnessing me embarrass myself,” I manage in a voice raspy from the heat of the food, or maybe, simply because this man exists on planet earth.

“I told you, I’d prefer it to be called a knack for rescuing you.”

Rescuing me. Though this is the second time he’s said those words, they radiate through my body, deep into my soul, and something long suppressed within me stirs, then raises its ugly head. I don’t need to be rescued. Do I? In that deep down spot the words have touched, an old part of myself screams yes, yes, yes. You need to be rescued. You want to be rescued. You want to be taken care of. I straighten and twist my fingers together in my lap. Silently, I battle my inner self. No. No. No. I do not want to be rescued. I do not need to be rescued. Not anymore. Not for a long time now. Not ever again.

Chris lifts a hand towards the kitchen. “Diego,” he calls out. “Can we get Sara an order minus the fire sauce?” They exchange comments in Spanish before Chris refocuses his attention on me. He studies me intently, and I can tell he’s trying to read whatever emotion is stamped on my face. Good luck, I think, because I can’t even read what I’m feeling myself.

“How’s your mouth feeling?”

I wet my burning lips and his gaze follows, his expression darkening, and every nerve ending I own tingles in reply. “Fine,” I comment, “but no thanks to you. You should have warned me how hot it was.”

“I distinctly remember warning you.”

“You should have tried harder. You knew I was starving.”

“You say that past tense. Are you saying you’re not anymore?”

“My tongue is raw and may never be the same, but actually, yes, I’m still starving.”

“Me too,” he says softly. “Ravenous, in fact.”

My throat goes dry. Really dry. More dry than the other ten or so times he’s caused such a reaction in me. There is a charge in the air, crackling all around us, to the point I almost think sparks must be evident. I can feel this man in every part of my body and he has not even touched me. I don’t remember ever feeling this aware of a man in my life. I don’t want this to be my imagination but I’m not sure I am confident enough in myself to be with this man. I thought I was past all my self-doubt, but I’m not sure I am.

Desperate for a reprieve from whatever this thing between us is that threatens to consume me, I reach for a distraction. “You should eat before your food gets cold.”

“Señora.” Diego appears by my side and takes my plate. “Are you okay? Our fire is real fire.” He casts Chris a disapproving look. “I thought Señor would have warned you.”

Chris holds up his hands. “Hey, hey. I did warn her.”

“After I took a bite,” I counter, enjoying my opportunity to join in with Diego and give him a hard time. In some small way, it takes just a bit of the edge from my embarrassment.

“Before you took the bite,” he corrects.

Diego says something in Spanish that sounds like frustration directed at Chris, and then looks at me. “He should have told you before you took a bite. I am sorry, Señora.”

“Don’t worry about me or keep apologizing,” I plead. “Really. I’m more than fine, or I will be, when you two men stop watching me like I’m about to go up in flames.”

A waiter appears and sets a new plate in front of me before taking my old plate from Diego and disappearing with it.