“I owe you this one,” she insisted. “For the car, yes, and everything else.”

“You’re a difficult woman to refuse.”

How Marjorie wished that were true. “How do you like Mexican food?”

“Love it. But I really would prefer it if you allowed me to buy lunch.”

“You’d break tradition.” She was convinced her nose would start growing at any minute.

Sam grinned. The more he came to know this woman, the more he learned about pride. “Are you always so stubborn?”

“Always,” she answered evenly, and pointed to the left-hand side of the street. “The restaurant is about a block farther on. There’s parking on the street and a small lot around back.”

Sam parked easily. Once inside, they were forced to put their name on a list, but Marjorie assured him the food was well worth the wait. They were seated within ten minutes; the waitress seemed to know Marjorie.

“Do you come here often?”

She nodded and finished munching on a warm tortilla chip before answering. “At least once a week. I’m worthless in the kitchen, and it’s easier for me to eat out.”

Sam’s insides tightened. He should have guessed that she would be a terrible cook, and he felt almost guilty because it bothered him. He’d always thought the woman he was looking to build his life with should possess at least the rudimentary culinary skills.

“The last time I experimented with a recipe,” Marjorie continued, “I set off the fire alarm and cleared the entire apartment complex. Under direct orders of the building manager and the Tacoma Fire Department, I’ve been asked to refrain from any kitchen activities,” she joked.

The sound of Sam’s strained chuckle mingled with the chatter in the small restaurant.

“My sister swears that I’ll make someone a wonderful husband.” In many ways what Jody claimed was true; Marjorie could fix just about anything. But cooking and sewing were lost arts to her.

Sam found the food to be as good as Marjorie had claimed. He watched her eat with undisguised gusto and then pause, obviously embarrassed, to explain that she was only now regaining her appetite.

As she dabbed a drop of hot sauce from the corner of her mouth with a paper napkin, Marjorie’s gaze fell to her empty plate. No doubt most women Sam dated were dainty things who ate like sparrows and wore a size two. She downed the remainder of her Mexican beer, equally sure she’d done the wrong thing by ordering it. Sam’s women probably drank tea diluted with milk. For once in her life she wished she could be different. She wanted Sam to like her even with her healthy appetite and appreciation of good beer.

The waitress returned for their plates and served two cups of coffee. Sam noted the sudden lag in the conversation that followed and picked it up easily, entertaining Marjorie with anecdotes from his youth.