Page 21 of Sex, Lies, and Margarita Mixes

FAMILY INVASION

ROXY

There’s a knock at the door that sounds too polite to be safe. Which, in my experience, means it’s either Jehovah’s Witnesses or my mother.

Chase glances up from the couch, where he’s shirtless, barefoot, and devouring leftover tamales like a Greek god confused about geography in a food coma. “Are we expecting someone?”

“Not unless Mari Lynn decided to teleport in on a luxury cloud of chaos and caffeine,” I say, wiping my hands on a dish towel. “But that knock? That knock is laced with disappointment and passive aggression. It’s her .”

I crack the door open an inch. And there she is… my mother.

She looks immaculate and judgey. She’s carrying a casserole dish like it’s a diplomatic peace offering—or a Trojan horse—with her it’s a coin toss.

“Hello, Roxanne.”

Ah, we’re using my full name.

Shit!

We’re doomed.

“Hi, Mother.” I force a smile and swing the door open. “To what do we owe the surprise drop-in?”

If she can do it, I can, too.

“I was in the neighborhood.”

I blink. “You live two hours away.”

“I had errands.”

“In Dallas?”

She glides past me like a high-end fragrance commercial, surveying the house with a critical eye. Her nose wrinkles. “It smells like cumin and irresponsibility in here.”

“Well, Chase was cooking.”

“I assumed...”

Chase, bless his perfect naked torso, waves from the couch. “Hey, Mrs. Ruiz. You look lovely. Want a tamale?”

She eyes the plate like it’s an alien offering and dismisses him. “No. I’m not hungry.” Her tone says, “And even if I were, I wouldn’t eat anything you offered.” It pisses me off.

“More for me,” he says cheerfully, popping another one into his mouth, blissfully unaware—or uncaring—of her rudeness. “They’re homemade. Roxy bribed the vendor with tequila.”

“It’s called negotiating,” I add, crossing my arms.

Mother sets the casserole on the counter with a drawn-out sigh. “I brought your grandmother’s recipe. She was asking about you and said it’s time you learn to make a proper pot roast before someone thinks you were raised by wolves. Domestication is an attractive… trait.”

An attractive trait? To whom?

I’m married… to the gorgeous specimen of a man sitting on our couch.

And he’s never complained about my domesticity…

Is that even a word?

I deadpan. “Chase doesn’t complain about my domestic skills. Did she send that message by carrier pigeon or just etch it in stone herself?” My voice rises.

“Roxanne...” It’s long and drawn out. “Must you be so… uncouth? You were raised with manners.”

The fuck did she just say to me? She’s in my damn house, being rude and insulting to my husband, and I’m the one with bad manners?

Is she flipping serious?

Of course, she is.

“Thanks for the casserole.”

I glance at Chase, who’s biting back a smile as he licks his fingers clean. He mouths “ good girl” at me, and I roll my eyes.

Okay, so he’s not unaware. Unlike me, he’s just not letting her get to him.

I need to try that tactic.

“So, mother, is this a culinary intervention or a social call? Why are you here?” I ask.

Her mouth purses as she delicately perches on a barstool. “Both. I thought it was time we… caught up.”

Oh god.

She doesn’t get “caught up.”

She audits.

Ten minutes later, we’re awkwardly arranged in the living room. Chase has reluctantly put on a shirt. I’m still mentally cataloging all the ways this ambush could implode.

Mother sips her passionfruit tea—the only one we had in the cabinet— like a Bond villain.

Complete with rigid pinkie… Uh, we live in Texas, not freaking Britain.

Chase is sipping bourbon like a saint. I’m sipping wine from a bottle Mari Lynn left here and wishing I was shooting tequila like a woman two sips away from losing her shit.

“How’s the food truck coming along?” she asks him, tone lightly sugared but sharp enough to cut glass.

“Good,” he answers easily. “Permits approved. Just ordered the wrap. It’ll be up and running as early as next month.”

She tilts her head and regards him. “And… you’re sure that’s stable ?”

I bristle. “Mother?—”

“It’s a fair question to ask, Roxanne. You carry the weight with your business. A man should provide.”

Freaking bitch. He provides just fine. He works, too. He doesn’t mooch.

Chase smiles gently, but I can see the strain in the set of his jaw. “Like any startup, it’s risky. But it’s mine. And it’ll be damn good. I don’t fail.” He looks at me.

He doesn’t. He commits and works his ass off to make it work.

Look at our marriage.

I say, “It’s going to be great. I have absolute faith in Chase.”

She hums noncommittally, then, she turns her attention to me. “And how’s the… fallout?”

Huh?

My brain short-circuits. “Sorry? What? What fallout?”

“After the wedding incident . And the—” she gestures vaguely at the ceiling, “—viral situation. Are you seeing someone?”

I blink. “I’m literally married.” I raise my brows so high they almost touch the ceiling. “To him.” I point.

She sighs like I’m slow. “I’m very aware of that, Roxanne. I meant a therapist. You don’t always handle things… maturely… or deal with them in the best way.”

Ah. I’m crazy and she doesn’t want to see me on the news as well as viral clips online.

I glance at Chase, who watches me quietly.

“No, I’m not. But I’m… working on it,” I admit. “Chase is very supportive. As is Mari Lynn. I’m good. I’ve been busy rebuilding.”

She nods and pauses before saying. “Good.” Her eyes lock on me.” Because pretending you’re fine isn’t the same as being fine.”

For a second—just a fleeting one—I swear I see concern beneath her critical mask.

Chase squeezes my thigh. “She’s stronger than she knows.”

My mother watches him for a long moment before saying, “She is.” Her tone softens. “She deserves someone who sees that. I’m glad she has you.”

Uh, who are you and what have you done with my mother?

I blink, stupefied. “Is this… support ?”

She smiles faintly and touches my knee. “Don’t get used to it.”

She leaves an hour later, and the casserole is ominously chilling in the fridge. I curl into Chase’s lap on the couch.

“She makes me feel like I’m fifteen again,” I grumble. “Like I’m still the girl who didn’t get into med school but was glad because I didn’t want to go to med school. Like I’m still the girl who dyed her blonde hair black just to piss her off.”

He strokes my still black hair. “You’re not that girl.”

“I know. But she… brings it out.”

“She brings out the parts of you that you haven’t forgiven yet.”

Glancing up, I narrow my eyes. “Stop psychoanalyzing me, Chase West.”

“I’m just saying.” He chuckles.

“You’re annoyingly good at it.”

“I watch a lot of Dr. Phil.” He shrugs.

I snort. “Liar. You do not.”

He outright laughs. “Okay. I listen while you watch it.”

I grin, then, lean in to kiss him. “I love you.”

“Good. I love you, too. Besides, I really did order the food truck wrap.”

Wait, what? What does one have to do with the other?

Damnit, Chase…

“It doesn’t have my face on it, does it?” I ask.

Smirking, he shrugs. “Only a little.”

“Chase.”

“Kidding. But not really. It absolutely has your face on it, baby.”

I’m going to kill him.

“Your food truck has my face on it? It’s your food truck. Why doesn’t it have your face?” I ask.

He wiggles his brows. “Who says it doesn’t?”

I snort. “You’re lucky you’re hot.”

“I know.”

Later that night, I’m standing at the kitchen counter, barefoot in his T-shirt, drinking the rest of Mari Lynn’s wine straight from the bottle.

He comes up behind me, slides his arms around my waist, and rests his chin on my shoulder. “Still thinking about her?”

Shaking my head, I turn in his arms. “Thinking about you.” My arms wrap around his waist, and I set the empty bottle on the counter behind him.

“Good thoughts I hope?” he questions.

“The best.” Hugging him tightly, I move my hands up and down his back, not to entice, just to feel him under my palms. “You make the noise stop.”

Reaching up, he brushes my hair back from my cheek and tucks it behind my ear. “And you make me feel like I could survive anything.” He traces my lips with his fingertip.

I smile under his thumb and kiss the pad. “Even my mom?”

He laughs. “Especially your mom.” Moving his hand, he traces my cheekbone.

Standing on my tip-toes, I kiss him. Slowly and deeply. He kisses me back and it’s beautiful and perfect. Sliding my hands down his back, I slip them into his boxer briefs and squeeze his firm ass cheeks. He breaks the kiss, and I grin up at him. “Want to christen the kitchen again?”

He lifts me onto the counter. “God, yes.” He peels my panties down my legs and shoves his boxer briefs down, all within thirty seconds.

Then, he pulls me to the edge of the counter.

My thighs widen and my ankles lock behind his back.

I grip him, stroke him a few times, and line him up.

His cock head slips past my lips and his hips move. He slides in and we move as one.

The counter is christened. And then, he takes me against the fridge. Where the casserole my mother dropped off earlier is sitting. Because we’re insatiable. We’re in love. We’re in a good place. And because we’re thriving .