The Only Purple House in Town (Fix-It Witches, #4)(69)
Why is nothing ever easy for me? This whole situation felt tremendously unfair, as Susan’s enmity made no logical sense. We didn’t even do anything.
“Don’t worry about that,” Eli said.
She should protest, as she’d taken a lot of help already—from Eli especially, but from everyone else as well. Henry Dale had done reno while Sally filled the freezer with food she never asked anyone to pay for; Mira was casting spells to fix up the house while Rowan worked fulfillment on Iris’s jewelry business. Iris had wanted to be independent, but instead, she’d assembled a team.
No idea what that says about me—probably nothing good. Maybe I’m biologically incapable of succeeding on my own.
But Eli didn’t seem to think there was anything wrong with her. And she’d smeared her tears all over his hoodie and he was still here, still cuddling her like he had nothing else to do for the rest of the day. God, he smelled fantastic, all woodsy and crisp, so much that she wanted to roll around with him.
Then he kissed the top of her head, and the tingle ran straight down to her toes. That gave her the courage to…try.
“I guess we need to have another house meeting,” she said softly.
* * *
After Eli sent an email to Liz explaining the situation, along with some pertinent links to local housing regulations, he ran some errands.
Dish soap. Laundry detergent. Toilet paper.
He never mentioned buying this stuff, mostly because he honestly enjoyed making everyone’s lives easier. Nobody else seemed to notice when they were about to run out, and he liked being the detail person, the one who made it so Iris didn’t have to worry.
I wish I could spend my life doing this for her. For everyone, really.
On the way home, he stopped by Pablo’s and ordered a bunch of tacos for dinner. They had the good kind here—his favorite, tacos al pastor. Gamma had introduced him to them on a vacation in Florida; she’d tried her best to give him a little Mexican culture, but he’d still lost a lot when his mom had passed so young, losing touch with her side of the family. Several times a year, he thought about looking for them—it probably wouldn’t be that tough—but he always hesitated over taking that last step.
Would they be glad to see him, or would he be an outsider there because he only spoke a little Spanish? He’d tried to keep it up because he’d spoken it with his mom as a child, but his dad hadn’t been fluent, and neither was Gamma. Eli had always felt that he wasn’t quite one thing or another—that he only fit when he was flying, far above the treetops, away from the pettiness and problems that came from other people. Though he wouldn’t admit it, he’d also been lonely.
I’m not lonely anymore.
While he waited for the food, he checked email on his phone. There was an urgent one from Liz, and he read it with a frown.
What is up with you? This is the third message I’ve sent. AroTech is talking about going with another candidate on this project. They said you came across lukewarm in the videoconference, and I can’t say I disagree. Are you really letting go of this much money?
Don’t make me fly over there.
I’m doing my best to reassure them, but they’re insisting on a face-to-face to hammer out the particulars. They want your signature and a handshake by the end of the week, or this isn’t happening. Get your butt to Seattle! Don’t disappoint me.
Before he could type a reply, the counter guy shouted, “Tacos al pastor!” and Eli went to grab the piquant-smelling bags. Currently, there was just too much going on for him to worry about a deal he wasn’t even sure he wanted. Pushing the issue to the back of his brain, he drove home in a hurry, keen to check on Iris.
The others greeted him at the front door, Rowan eagerly pulling the bags of food from his hands. “What did you get? Oh my God, it smells fantastic.”
He spoke in a bullet list. “Tacos al pastor. Refritos. Red rice. Grilled onions.”
Everyone helped set out the food and gathered around the table. Sally and Henry Dale watched Eli top his first taco with minced onion, green sauce, lime juice, fresh cilantro, and bits of pineapple. He devoured it in two bites while Mira, Rowan, and Iris fixed their own plates.
“I’ve never seen a taco like that in my life,” Sally declared. “No lettuce? No cheese? No tomatoes or salsa?”
“It’s more traditional,” Eli said. “Go easy on the green sauce; it’s pretty hot.”
Henry Dale didn’t say anything, but it amused Eli to see how carefully the old man added everything to the corn tortilla, like he was playing Jenga and one wrong move would collapse his meal. He went light on the green sauce, heavy on the lime, and the first bite put a big smile on Henry Dale’s face.
Rowan had their phone out. “It says here that tacos al pastor were invented by Lebanese immigrants in Puebla, Mexico, in the 1920s. Originally, they were called tacos arabes and they used lamb.”
Eli grinned. He’d done the exact same thing when he tasted these, looked up the history of the dish. “Yup. The recipe was tweaked by local cooks—hence the spices and marinade—and they switched to pork because it’s more popular in Mexico.”
Rowan ate another taco. “Oh, interesting! This article says that in the early 2000s, a chicken version of pastor arrived in Lebanon, and it’s called Shawarma Mexici.”