He laughed, that deep, dark sound rolling over her body helplessly. “Hell, yeah, sweet thing. I’ll come by any time I’m invited.”
“Well, I hope you like sweet pink wine in the desert, querido.”
He looked puzzled, his mostly-empty glass of whiskey held aloft in mid-sip. “The desert?”
“Yep. I’m from New Mexico.”
“No kidding?” he drawled. “We’re neighbours.”
“We are?” she said, feeling a tiny stab of fear that somehow, by some completely freak and f****d-up twist of fate, he lived six blocks over from her childhood home or something. “Are you – you’re from New Mexico?”
“Arizona,” he replied. “But I know your home state well. Been there more times than I can count.”
Jo was overwhelmed by relief, and mentally high-fived herself for not saying that she was from California or some other st
