Chapter 2
“Seriously? So you didn’t tell him? You let him believe Emma was your kid?”
Monica thought she’d prepared herself for confession and interrogation, but Mel was in rare form. She was also incandescent. Monica chose not to dwell on what caused her sister to glow as if lit by a candle. If only she could bleach the memory of her brother-in-law Jeremy’s too-wide smile from her brain.
“I tried, but we kept getting interrupted, and the next thing I knew, he was gone,” Monica explained, trying to control the exasperation in her tone.
“Like, poof! Presto! A big puff of smoke and nothing left but a scorch mark on the grass?”
Raking her hand through her hair, Monica dropped onto the sofa. “Not quite, but close.” She hefted her overstuffed Marc Jacobs tote to the coffee table and started extracting all evidence of her day with her niece. “Well, you know…His friends were there, and the kids were whining, I wasn’t going to stand there and scream, ‘Hey, hot guy! I’m not this kid’s mom!’ in the middle of the park.” She turned to glance at her niece, who was kneeling at the side of the table inspecting every juice box, hair band, and baggie Monica dropped to its surface. “No offense, kiddo.”
Unperturbed, Emma held up a bag of cheese crackers shaped like bunny rabbits. “Can I have these?”
Monica blinked, visions of the overpriced sandwiches and petit fours the little girl had left uneaten thirty minutes ago dancing in her head. “I thought you said you weren’t hungry.”
Emma shrugged and hopped to her feet. “I am now.”
Luckily, Mel’s husband was adept at avoiding sisterly conversations. He scooped up Emma, his I-got-some smile stretching into a grin as the little girl squealed and squirmed with delight. “C’mon. We’ll rustle up a PB&J to go with those.”
The kitchen door barely swung closed. Mel was on her again, her flyaway blond hair even more flighty than usual. “So are you going to call him?”
Shifting her tablet a little to the left to make room for her paper planner, she tucked the tiny spiral notebook she kept on hand at all times into the side pocket of the tote. Sparing her sister a glance from under the curtain of her hair, she mumbled, “I want to.”
“You’re going to have to tell him,” Melody said, fixing her with a disconcerting stare.
Somehow, Monica always managed to underestimate the amount of steel in her free-spirited sister’s spine. Mel seldom showed the tougher side of her personality. She preferred to go through life as if the whole world were populated with rainbow-colored unicorns. Even in the weekly yoga class they took together, Melody soaked up the plinky new-age music and threw herself into the deep breathing exercises and Oms. Monica usually spent most of the relaxation portion of the class figuring out subtle ways to throw a few Pilates moves in to save herself the time of taking another class. Hard to believe a woman clad in faded yoga pants, a tie-dyed Peace Frogs T-shirt, and a pair of fuzzy socks she claimed were infused with shea butter or aloe or some such nonsense kept a stare so potent stashed in her arsenal.
“I’ll tell him.” Monica returned the stare with what felt like an adequate amount of gravitas but had a hard time fighting the urge to smile. “But can I wait until after?”
Mel blinked. “After? After what? The date?”
Monica waggled her eyebrows but held her sister’s gaze as she gave her head a slow shake. “No…after.” Without breaking eye contact, she woke her phone from its electronic slumber and tapped the button to open the camera app. She held the phone out but kept her focus locked on her sister even after Melody’s gaze dropped to the screen and she gasped.
“Holy cra...crêpes,” she corrected at the last second.
“Crêpes?”
“Last week, I heard Emma tell some poor kid at tumbling her somersaults looked like crap, so I have to watch my language.” Mel darted a glance at the kitchen door, then lunged for the phone. Cradling the cell in both hands, she openly gaped at the picture of Colm. “This is him? For real?”
“For real.” Sinking into the couch cushions, Monica let loose with a gusty sigh. “You see why I want to delay the inevitable a bit?”
Mel stared at the phone for a moment longer. Tapping the button to close the app, she handed the cell over. “What makes you think the inevitable is bad? Most guys would be happy to find out the woman he’s interested in isn’t saddled with a kid.”
Wrinkling her nose, Monica gave the possibility a moment’s consideration. “I don’t think so,” she said slowly. “For some reason, I get the feeling the kid thing is part of the appeal for him.”
“Like he has a mommy fetish?”
Monica laughed, tickled by the leaps her sister’s mind made. “Maybe he’s looking for a new mommy for Aiden.”
Melody’s eyes widened as she barked a laugh. “You?”
Her sister’s ready dismissal of her potential stung a little, but Monica couldn’t truly disagree with the assessment. “No, not me. Definitely not me.”
Motherhood had never been a part of her life plan. Marriage was a possibility, but she always saw herself more as a half of a power couple than a cozy nester couple like her sister and Jeremy. Either way, their lifestyles were a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree turnaround from the chaos they grew up in.
Jeremy was a dentist with a thriving practice and a well-respected reputation. His success allowed Mel the freedom to be a full-time mommy and artist when she felt like it. The arrangement suited them both to perfection. But Monica always saw herself as a mover and a shaker. While she might be moved to dally a bit with a smoking-hot single-dad, she wasn’t the type to take on personal commitments. Sadly, she had the distinct impression Colm was the commitment sort. But she might be wrong. And what better way to get a feel for someone’s preferences than a friendly little dinner date?
“You’re going to do it, aren’t you?”
She jerked her head up to find Melody giving her the slitty-eyed stare. “What?”
“You’re going to go out with him and you’re going to let the poor man go on believing my baby is yours.”
The sheer dramatics had Monica rolling her eyes. “How have you never added theater to your artsy-fartsy repertoire?”
“Stage fright,” Mel answered without missing a beat.
“Listen, I’m only going to have dinner with him. How often does a girl like me have a shot at a hunk like that?”
“You always sell yourself short,” Mel interjected. “Some guys like the put-together-so-tight-I-squeak thing you have going on.”
“You flatter me so,” Monica replied with a smirk. “I promise I’ll do my best to avoid the topic of kids if at all possible. I just want to see if…”
She trailed off, making a slow circle with her hand and inviting Melody to fill in the blank however she saw fit. As always, her big sis didn’t let her down. “If he can make you squeak?”
“Exactly.”
Melody ran her hand over her bed-rumpled hair and fell into the oversized armchair with a huff. “Well, I’d be a first-class hypocrite to begrudge you hot sex. But I’m fairly sure I’m not supposed to let you use my kid to score. There has to be a section in the mommy handbook about not using your kid as a beard.”
Grinning, Monica caressed the smooth screen of her sleeping phone with the pad of her thumb. “She won’t be helping me score. She’ll be my convenient excuse for why this can’t go on after I’m done lapping him up like a saucer of milk.”
“Saucer of milk?”
“He has the most gorgeous skin.”
“Either way, I’m not sure I should let you use Emma as an excuse, either. There has to be at least a subsection.”
“I won’t be using her, per se,” Monica argued. “She’ll be a teensy part. Barely any…I’m busy. He’s busy. We both have jobs and…other responsibilities. Better we keep things casual, uncomplicated. Right?”
“God, you’re a horrible tramp, and I’m so jealous.” With the speed and agility Monica always forgot Mellow Mel possessed, her sister launched herself from the chair and landed on the couch beside her, bouncing them both. “Call him. I want to hear what he sounds like.”
Monica smirked, but a flush of pleasure warmed her cheeks as the backlit screen sprung to life. “Okay, but you have to swear you won’t say anything. Let me have my way with him this once, and I promise I will never let your daughter pimp me out again.”
“Oh, hush. Don’t say such things about my baby.” She shuddered delicately. “Dial.”
Monica opened her contacts list and swiped his number. As they waited for the call to go through, she turned to her sister. “I’m buying Em a fur coat and a pimp hat for her Halloween costume.”
“Over my dead body.”
“She’ll love the hat. A great big feather and—” Oh crêpes indeed, she thought as a low, melodious baritone cut her off at the knees.
“Hello?” Colm repeated.
“Oh, uh, hi,” she managed at last.
“Please tell me this is Monica.”
“Yeah. Hi.” Beside her, Melody vibrated with barely contained mirth. Monica swatted her sister, scooted away on the sofa, and tried to recover her cool. “Yes, this is Monica.”
Melody was plastered right up against her side. Luckily, Colm was quick on the uptake.
“So, this is a yes,” he said briskly. “I’m taking this as a yes, because you aren’t texting.”
“It’s a yes.”
Mel grabbed her arm and gave a jiggle-squeeze of excitement. When Monica tried to reclaim the rapidly numbing limb, her sister whispered, “He even sounds hot.”
Thankfully, there was a clatter and commotion on the other end of the line. After a bit of fumbling, Colm asked, “I’m sorry, did you say something?”
“No, nothing.” She shot Mel a warning glance. “Uh, and yes.”
“Great.”
Funny how a guy could convey a kazillion things in one little word. In her head she heard relief, anticipation, a touch of cockiness, and what she hoped was lust all wrapped up in a single syllable.
“So, listen. I think we established I’m not good at this flirting thing, and I really don’t want to give you a chance to rethink your yes, so I’m going to ask you a few questions, you give me your gut instinct answers. We can save up the rest of our awkward conversation for the actual date. Okay?”
Her sister, no competition for Meryl Streep’s acting awards, clutched her chest with both hands and feigned an exaggerated faint, sprawling across the sofa cushions and sporting a rapturous smile. Monica didn’t need a mirror to know she wore a matching one. She wished she’d beat Melody to the full-body flop.
Settling for a semi-swoon against the arm of the sofa, she closed her eyes and envisioned him propped up against the tree trunk. “Okay.”
“Do you like spicy food? Like Mexican-type stuff?”
Picturing the swanky restaurant specializing in Korean-Mexican fusion she’d read about last week, she sighed. This date was definitely meant to be. “Is there anyone who doesn’t?”
“Do you want me to pick you up, or would you be more comfortable meeting me someplace?”
The thoughtfulness of the question jolted her from her fantasies about Dakgalbi tacos. No pick up meant no drop off, and maybe less opportunity for post-drop off activities. “Uh, well, it doesn’t really matter.”
“I didn’t know what your babysitting situation would be,” he explained.
“Oh, well, Emma will be at my sister’s.” She bit off a yelp of pain when said sister’s heel connected with her ribs. “I can meet you.”
“Great. I know I’m used to eating earlier these days, and I’m sure you are, too. How about we meet outside the Starbucks at Clark and Belmont at about six?”
Monica stifled a snort. Six? She was usually at work at six. And she couldn’t remember exactly where the fusion place was, but she was thinking more Near North or West Town. Of course, where they ate hardly mattered. What mattered was she had a date with the hottest Saturdaddy ever to hit the Armitage Park playground. “Sounds perfect.”
“I’ll see you then.”
The smile in his voice rang through loud and clear, spawning one of her own. “See you.”
The moment she ended the call, Melody pounced. Her sister snatched the phone from her hand. “Oh my God, he sounded so hot. I need to see his picture again.” She scrambled up onto her knees and sat on her heels, a dreamy sigh escaping her as the squishy couch cushion forced her to topple sideways. “I didn’t know guys like this roamed around out there.”
“Like unicorns?”
“The kind of unicorns that only live on Calvin Klein’s estate.”
“Stop ogling my date.” Monica plucked the phone from her sister’s grasp. “You’re a married lady.”
“Married, not dead. You’re right about his skin. Was it really pretty up close and personal?”
“Like the man should be in a Dove commercial.”
“Irish,” Melody said with a sigh. “Has to be, with a name like Colm Cleary.”
“A green-eyed Irishman. Imagine,” Monica said with a smug smirk.
“He sure fills the Henley out well.” Mel held the phone close to her face, a pensive frown bisecting her brow. “Maybe I should get Jer a couple.”
Feeling generous, Monica refrained from pointing out that her beloved brother-in-law was a good four inches shorter and forty pounds lighter than Colm. Not that she was trying to sell him…well, short. Jeremy was a handsome man in his own lean and studious way. In truth, he was more the type Monica usually went for, but it wasn’t every day a woman stumbled across a beast of a hottie while on a play date with her niece.
“I posted him to my friend Sarah’s blog.”
“What? Already?” Melody scowled at the phone. “You haven’t even figured out what to wear.” She gasped. “What are you going to wear?”
Monica opened her mouth to answer, but her sister stopped her with the hand.
“No. Nothing black, gray, or whatever boring shade of neutral Armani has declared the new white. You need color. Real color. Vibrant color.”
Monica scowled, annoyed by her sister’s assessment of her wardrobe options. “I don’t wear vibrant color. Bright flashy things spook the traders.”
“What happened to the wrap blouse I bought you for Christmas?”
Avoiding her sister’s gaze, she pretended to give the question due diligence. “It’s in my closet.” Not a lie. The sapphire-blue length of rayon blend was somewhere in the bag of castoffs at the rear of her closet. The one she’d planned to donate to a local women’s shelter. She bit the inside of her cheek as she considered the garment in question. The blouse was a pretty color, even if a bit too bright. And with the right bra, the wrap style might give the illusion of cleavage. Warming to the idea, she turned to Melody. “With a pair of black pipe-stem pants?”
Mel blinked as if she couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “Pants? I thought you wanted to get laid?”
“Oops. Too soon,” they heard Jeremy say a tad too loud.
Their heads swiveled in the direction of the kitchen in time to see the door swing shut again.
“And the awkwardness begins,” Monica said with a giggle.
“You need to wear a skirt. A short one,” Melody pronounced.
“I don’t own any short skirts.”
Her sister rolled her eyes. “Of course you don’t, Business Barbie.” Shaking her head pityingly, she unfolded herself from the couch, snagging Monica’s hand as she rose. “Come on. I’m sure I have something from the pre-pregnancy collection that’ll work.”
Monica stutter-stepped to match her sister’s pace as she allowed herself to be dragged toward the apartment’s spare bedroom. “Pre-pregnancy? But that was seven years ago.”
Bypassing a weaving loom she hadn’t so much as dusted in months, Mel made a beeline for the closet. With a flourish, she threw open the door to reveal an Ali Baba’s cave of clothing. “You’re lucky skimpy never goes out of style.”
* * * *
He had to stop looking down her blouse. Well, not really down her blouse, at her blouse. The spot where the two sides crisscrossed. Right there. And if he didn’t stop gawking, she was going to notice. And here he’d been so proud of himself for walking the block and a half to La Casita without falling at her feet. If he had, he probably would have taken the opportunity to peek up her skirt.
God, he was a dog. Had he always been this desperate? Maybe not always, he reasoned. But definitely lately. He was going to have to get a handle on himself.
When he’d turned the corner and saw her standing by the coffee shop doorway, he’d almost chocked on his own tongue. Her legs were long. Supermodel fantasy long. And she was wearing a very short skirt. For one crazy second, all he could think about was her skirt. The hemline would never have escaped the nuns at his grammar school. He sent up a quick prayer of heartfelt thanksgiving for that singularly inadequate piece of fabric. For a man who’d spent the last few years jacking off to the lingerie catalogs that kept coming to his house long after his wife had died, those legs and a short skirt were a dream come true.
He’d caught a flash of disappointment in her eyes when they stepped into the restaurant’s garishly festive vestibule, but she recovered with a smile tinged with a hint of sheepishness. As if she knew she’d been caught out being a little snobby. She had the good grace to be sorry, too. The tiny restaurant was packed, but he knew the owners, so they’d been seated right away. And while the table spared him the sight of those mile-long legs, the vee neck put the shallow valley of her cleavage right at eye level.
Monica glanced up from the menu. “I don’t recognize some of the dishes listed here. What kind of fusion is this?”
“Fusion?” He looked at the laminated parchment as if he might cop a clue from the entrées section.
“I thought maybe there’d be an Asian influence. I hear the whole Korean-Mexican fusion thing is supposed to be awesome.”
“Oh. No. Nothing fused.” He flashed an apologetic smile. “It’s Colombian. Authentic Colombian,” he added, desperate to make the cramped restaurant seem somewhat more hip and cool.
“Oh.” Color rose in her cheeks as she turned her attention to the selections again. “I assumed…You said like Mexican…I’ll shut up.”
Colm chuckled, charmed by her strange mix of brash and bashful. “Well, like Mexican in some ways, but a little different.”
“Was Aiden’s mother Hispanic?”
He should have expected the question. Not a difficult conclusion, given his son’s coloring, and absolutely correct. “Yes.” But he didn’t want to talk about her. Or Aiden. Or anything remotely relating to Princess Clarissa and her cartoon cohorts. Leaning in close, he held her gaze. “I’d like to make a couple of rules for the evening, if you’re game.”
“I think I might be game.” She gave him a coy half-smile. “What kind of rules did you have in mind?”
He watched in rapt fascination as she ran her finger around the rim of her glass. “No kid talk,” he blurted. Colm grimaced when he saw her flinch the slightest bit. “I mean, they’re great, and Aiden is the most important person in the world to me, as I’m sure Emma is for you,” he continued in a rush. “But you have no idea how long it’s been since I’ve had an adult night out. And I have to admit, even longer since I’ve had one with a woman.” He cringed a little when her eyebrows shot upward. “I mean, like I said at the park, a date. With a woman. Not a guy. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.” He added the line with a nervous chuckle, and at last she cracked.
Her laugh rang out, clear and unchecked. The sound held the barest hint of rasp, but every hair on his arms rose in response. “Okay. I’m with you. No kid talk.”
Relieved, he set his menu aside and reached for the IPA Especial he’d ordered. The beer was cold and crisp but did little to quench the thirst building inside of him.
“Listen, I don’t want to…Like I said, it’s been a long time. And I know I said I don’t want to talk about the kids—and I don’t—but I feel like I should be straight with you.”
Monica lowered her menu but raised an eyebrow. “Okay. Be straight.”
He winced at the implication but didn’t take the bait. “I don’t know how…involved I can get. I don’t have time to catch up on laundry, much less dating, and I’d hate—”
She held up one hand to stop him. “Colm.”
“Yes?”
“It’s fine. Let’s just…see how things go.”
He exhaled loudly and turned loose a relieved smile. “Sounds good.”
Returning her attention to the menu, she murmured, “As long as you are straight.”
“Oh, I am,” he assured her.
Wrapping his hand around the beer bottle, he gave her time to peruse the choices at her leisure as the familiar scents and sounds enfolded him like a warm blanket. Up until he finally gave the go-ahead on the overnights with his parents, he and Aiden had come here every Saturday night.
For the first three years of Aiden’s life, Pablo and Carita had been the only family he and his son had. His own parents lived a mere thirty miles away, but disapproved of his marriage. His late wife shared no blood connection with the couple, but family ties hadn’t mattered. They were the ones who’d been there for him through thick and thin. Bad and worse. Secrets and lies.
Monica placed her menu on top of his and reached for her sangria. “I think I’ll let you order for me.”
A rush of pure masculine pleasure pulsed through him. Leaning forward, he tapped his fingertips against the menus. “Any restrictions?”
“None whatsoever,” she answered, her gaze unwavering.
Heat exploded inside him. He was on fire. Like the time Carmen teased him into biting into a habanero, but this time every inch of him burned. Particularly the inches that hadn’t had the attention of a good woman in way too long. “Here we are, us grown-ups, trying our best not to humiliate ourselves.” He drew his finger through the condensation on his beer bottle. “I doubt I’ll pull it off.”
“The evening is young,” she intoned gravely, cracking herself up.
He tried not to gape like a schoolboy at the way her high, small breasts made the slinky top she wore shimmer. The bright blue color made him picture waves of water cascading over her. He could see the scene so clearly, droplets sliding down her throat and pooling at the hollow in the center. His mouth on her. Licking, sipping, tasting each tantalizing stretch of skin. His hands on her long, lithe body. Her hands on the tile walls of his shower stall. A fast-running current of water rushing along the curve of her spine. His fingers gripping her hips. Lifting. Tilting. Sinking—
“Well, if I had any doubts you were straight, you’ve certainly put them to rest.”
The erection he’d been trying to hold at bay went from half-mast to battering ram in the blink of an eye. He jerked his head up. Frank blue eyes bore into him. He pushed the sleeves of his sweater up a little, hoping to release some of the heat building inside him, but there was no escaping. He knew she could read his every thought. And the smile curving her lips told him she liked what she saw. Thank Christ.
“I’m sorry.” The words came automatically, even if the shame he expected to accompany them didn’t. Parenthood made a guy a master of insincere apology.
“Part of me wants to demand you to tell me exactly what you were thinking, but the look on your face says your thoughts aren’t fit for public consumption.”
Every muscle in his body tensed. The tips of his ears felt like someone was taking a blowtorch to them. He reached for his beer, knowing the glass couldn’t hold the fluid ounces he’d need to rehydrate his parched mouth. He gulped down a few anyway. He’d need juice to ask the questions pulsing through him. “And the other part?”
This time, Monica leaned in close, offering him a couple extra millimeters of skin. As if he needed incentive. “The other part wants you to show and tell.”
“Oh, holy hell,” he whispered. She gave him a smug smile. The struck stupid had to be showing on his face, but he was too far gone to care. “How hungry are you?”
“For food?” she countered.
Colm was waving to get the waitress’s attention when the kitchen door burst open and Pablo charged out. The older man was short and almost as round as he was tall. His ever-present white apron was so stained and splattered with sauces they could have stretched the coated cotton over a frame and hung the apron in any modern art museum. The edges of his mustache drooped even as he beamed at them. He approached the table with his arms spread wide, and as Colm rose to his feet, he knew any chance he had at escape was gone.
“Co-lum, Co-lum,” Pablo crowed as he wrapped him up in a bear hug, oblivious to the food spatters he was transferring to Colm’s clothes. “Too long. Carita is so angry you’ve stayed away, she won’t even come kiss you,” he announced, waving the wooden spoon clutched in his hand. The exuberant man proceeded to plant a smacking kiss on each of Colm’s cheeks.
The warmth and welcome he saw in his old friend’s eyes trumped the urge to wipe the kisses away. Aiden could get away with refusing the show of affection, no problem, but Colm valued Pablo’s friendship too much to risk insulting the man. “Pablo, this is my, uh, friend, Monica Rayburn.”
Like a laser-guided missile, Pablo homed in on his date. “Mees Mon-i-ca.”
Colm snorted at the man’s exaggerated accent, but kept an eagle eye on the old goat. If the stories he told were only half-true, Pablo had cut quite a swath in his day.
“I ham so honored.”
“You are a ham,” Colm murmured.
The widening of his friend’s smile told him Pablo heard and acknowledged the hit, but insults weren’t about to stop him. “Why would such a bee-u-ti-ful woman waste time with this pasty, er, how you say? Galoot?”
Colm was about to point out that Pablo had lived in the States for over thirty years and knew exactly how to say everything he needed to say. Without another word, the sneaky bastard tossed his wooden spoon onto the table as if he never intended to stir a pot again and extended a hand to help Monica from her chair. “Come, I will show you. Latino men really are hot-blooded. We know how to pleasure a woman.”
Clearly mesmerized by Pablo’s dog and pony show, Monica placed her hand in his and rose from her seat. In her short skirt and high heels, she towered over the rotund chef, but old Pablo didn’t seem to mind at all. The sneaky little bastard had a straight shot at the spot Colm had been ogling minutes ago.
“Wait a minute,” Colm protested.
Pablo drew Monica’s hand to his lips, then tucked her fingers securely into the crook of his arm, beaming up at her the entire time. “Come with Pablo, sweet lady. You’re too good for this potato farmer.”
“Hey!” They were halfway to the kitchen door. Pablo was actually making off with his date. “Hang on a second!”
He dodged a waitress shouldering a loaded tray and ducked into the steaming kitchen in time to see Carita turn away from the counter. Plates of food in varying stages of assembly stood arrayed in front of her, the apron tied at her trim waist miraculously white.
“Look what your feckless Irishman has brought us, Carita.”
The lines in Carita’s work-worn face smoothed into a blank slate. They slowly reformed as brackets around her red-painted lips and a delicate fan of crinkles at the corners of her eyes. “Ah, so this is why the worthless boy has forsaken me,” she said with a fatalistic shrug.
Rushing out from behind the counter, she tugged Monica’s hand from Pablo’s grasp and clasped her palm in both of hers. “Now I understand.” Carita looked past Monica to seek him out. Their gazes met and held, and he saw all he needed to see. Affection, acceptance, understanding, and forgiveness. “But know if I were but ten years younger, he’d choose me.”
He couldn’t fight both of them off, so he gave in and stepped forward. Surrendering to their bullying didn’t mean he was giving up his date, though. Placing a hand at the small of Monica’s back, he moved in close at her side. She jolted at the contact, but didn’t pull away. Instead, a delicate shiver ran through her. Colm bit the inside of his cheek as his blood began to sizzle. There’d be no early escape. They were stuck in this kitchen until they were stuffed to the gills.
Bending at the waist, he kissed Carita’s cheeks with every bit as much affection as Pablo had shown him, but with more restraint and, he hoped, less slobber. “If you’d even looked at me twice, Carita, I’d choose you.”
“Oh, go on.” Giving him a swat with the edge of her apron, she nodded to a scarred wooden table in the corner of the kitchen. “You go sit.” Shooing them along, she snapped her fingers and Pablo jumped to attention. “Get them a bottle of the Chilean chardonnay.”
Knowing the effort was useless, Colm put up a token resistance. “Uh, I was drinking beer and Monica had sangria.”
Carita shook her head adamantly. “No red wine. No beer.” She tapped her temple, nudging them closer to the table. “I knew today would be special. As I lay in my bed last night, a thought came to me…I needed to make my Mamita’s lechona today. Now I know I make lechona for you.”
Shooting him a half-amused but mostly bewildered glance, Monica slid into one of the hard slat-back chairs. “Maybe we could eat in the dining room?” Colm suggested, nodding toward the swinging door. “We don’t want to be in your hair.”
“Ay, my hair!” Carita patted the messy knot of silver-streaked ebony piled atop her head. “You sit here. If I take my Mamita’s lechona out there, they will stampede my kitchen.”
“Lechona?” Monica asked, her bright eyes eager and inquisitive.
Carita clapped her hands. “Very special. Must cook all day.” She nodded to the brick oven in the wall. “I put it in at four o’clock this morning, and now I serve to you.”
She fired off a barrage of orders in Spanish so fast Colm could only pick out a word or two, then bustled to her ovens.
Reaching across the battered table where he’d eaten so many meals, he touched Monica’s hand to get her attention. “I’m sorry. I wanted to take you someplace special, and I don’t go to too many restaurants that don’t give a toy with your meal.” He frowned as he took in their anything-but-romantic surroundings. “I should have known they’d take over.”
“This is amazing,” she said, her gaze darting from point to point as she soaked up the frenzy of activity. She flipped her hand over and wrapped her fingers around his, giving them a gentle squeeze. “I gather you’ve known them a long time?”
“Years. They used to have a place over on the west side. I worked the neighborhood when I was fresh out of the academy.” He tugged at his collar, wishing he’d opted for a shirt instead of the sweater. Between his nerves and the heat of the kitchen, he’d end up nothing but a puddle by dessert. Eager to distract her from his growing agitation, he forged ahead with his story. “Some of the gangbangers over there decided they wanted to target the non-Mexican Latinos.”
“Wow. I had no idea there were such tensions between the Hispanic communities.”
“Because most white people hear someone speaking Spanish and lump them all together. At least, I did.” He glanced up as Pablo approached with a chilled bottle of wine and two glasses in hand. “I was nothing but a pasty Irish kid from the south side. Everyone who speaks Spanish is Mexican, right, Pablo?”
His friend set the glasses in front of them and poured the golden wine. Sets of flatware rolled in linen napkins appeared on the table. Colm turned to thank him, and was smacked upside the head. Hard. He shifted to Monica, his mustache pushed to the limits as he turned on the charm. “Run away with me, pretty lady. You deserve much better than this ignorant mick.”
Colm smirked as he took a cautious sip of the wine. “Hey, I think you left some of your accent out in the dining room, a-meeee-go.”
“Hush, both of you,” Carita hissed, bumping her husband aside with her hip. “The poor girl is going to think she’s visiting the lunatic asylum.” She served them beautifully arranged plates. Rice and pork spilled out of triangles of crispy golden crust. Wedges of lime, seared tortillas, and whole red potatoes occupied the rest of the space, but the mouthwatering scent of garlic, onion, and spice made it clear they were mere supporting characters.
“Mm, Carita mia,” Pablo groaned as he caught a whiff of the bounty she’d placed in front of them. Drawing his wife to his side, he lowered his eyelids and gave her a long, smoldering look. “Tell me you saved a bit for your Pablo.”
Giggling like a girl, she shoved him away. “Get to work, Don Juan,” she chided. “We’ll leave these two to enjoy and perhaps you’ll get yours later.”
Monica looked up from her plate. The gleam in her bright blue eyes told him she was thinking exactly what he was thinking.
Swallowing the lump of nerves and desire knotting his throat, he raised his wine glass. “To getting bossed around.”
Her eyes twinkled with mischief when she lifted her glass to touch his. She smiled sweetly as she murmured, “And here I thought you’d want to drink to getting yours later.”