Gracias Madre is beautiful.

A cross between Mexican chic and Palm Springs casual, the restaurant is decorated with festive cushions and bold tiles, a gorgeous courtyard, and inside, high ceilings and a very stylish bar.

Oh, and the guacamole is fantastic. For a Mexican restaurant (and a vegan one at that) to screw up guac would be enough to cause me to walk out, but considering it’s the best I’ve ever had, that’s not anything I have to worry about. And when coupled with their truly addictive house-made chips, my mouth was watering.

I think I ate an entire bowl all by myself.

Keen’s lips quirk up. “So, what do you think?”

The small remaining piece of what was once quesadillas de calabaza on my plate should give it away. The butternut squash and salty caramelized onions tucked inside the tortilla were absolutely scrumptious, but rather than tell him that, I contain my glee. “It was good.”

He raises a brow and those blue eyes gleam with cockiness. “Just good?”

I push my plate away and have to smile. “Maybe better than good. How was yours?”

He’d ordered enchiladas con mole, and the mushrooms and black beans that oozed out of it looked to die for. He looks down at his empty plate. “Pretty damn good.”

I have three things I’m dying to admit. One, he looks sexy as hell and he isn’t even wearing a suit. Two, no one has ever willingly taken me to a vegan restaurant and no one I forced to go has ever liked it. And three, he was so in my pants the minute I met his gaze through my glass door.

The waiter appears and saves me from spouting out what I really need to keep to myself. Taking our plates, he asks, “Can I interest you in dessert?”

Keen sits forward and rests his elbows on the table. “We’ll have a piece of chocolate cake and a piece of java cake, and two coffees.”

The waiter gives a small bow. “Coming right up.”

I raise my brow. “What if I don’t like chocolate?”

He shakes his head at me. “I already know you do. I saw you eating an entire box of chocolates, remember?”

Face plant. Right! “What if I don’t want coffee?”

He smiles, and it’s a gorgeous smile that chips away at the tension prickling my nerve endings. “Then don’t drink it.” He turns serious. “Who was he, Maggie? And don’t say me, because I know that isn’t true.”

Truly confused, I have to ask, “He who?”

Keen picks up the spoon in front of him and moves it between his thumb and fingers. He’s nervous to ask, and yet he does. “The man who fucked with your head so much that you have such a hard time letting your guard down?”

Unease moves through me. I never, ever talk about my father. Ever.

The waiter appears and this time he sets two cups down, then a white china pot, and the cream and sugar. Suddenly, I’m thankful Keen ordered for us. The waiter pours the hot liquid into our cups.

Keen leans back and watches me, his eyes intense with scrutiny. I shiver and look away.

Another waiter appears at our table and sets two pieces of cake down. The chocolate one in front of me and the java one in front of Keen. Flanked by creamy vanilla-bean coconut ice cream, one cake looks better than the other and vice versa.

“Anything else?” the waiter asks.

“No, that will be all. Just the check. And compliments to the chef. Everything was delicious.”

“He will be thrilled to hear this.” The waiter sets the check down, gives another small bow, and then departs.

I pour my cream and keep my eyes down, and then when I take a sip, I dare to look across the table.

Keen remains unmoved. Leaning back in the chair, one ankle crossed over the other knee, he looks so powerful, it’s hard to believe he’s the same man whose touch can be so gentle, and voice so full of concern.

“Who is he?” His voice is low, taut.

I inhale sharply and set my cup down. “No one. I don’t know what you are talking about. What about you—who is it that caused you to build such a high wall and top it with iron spikes?”

He grins, that wolfish grin that masks what he’s truly feeling so brilliantly. “You have quite a flair for the dramatic, Maggie.”

Spooning a piece of cake in front of me, I say, “Do I?”

Keen studies me for a long moment, watches me chew and swallow, and then uses his fork to lift a piece of cake to my lips. “Try this one—it’s coffee flavored, and I think you’ll like it.”

I open my mouth and let him slide the bite of deliciousness inside. “Ummm...God, this is so good,” I say, covering my mouth. “You have to try it.”

He shakes his head no and sets his fork down. “I ordered them for you.”

“I can’t possibly eat two pieces of cake.”

“Eat what you can.”

“How did you know I’d like this place?”

“Makayla told me you were a vegetarian who tries really hard to be vegan, but sometimes slips,” he laughs. “So it wasn’t hard to find the perfect place to take you out.”

My heart rate spikes with an excitement that is hard to control. “You nailed it, Keen Masters,” I admit, dropping my gaze to the rim of my coffee cup.

He reaches across the table and takes my hand. “I really want to say I know I did, but instead I’ll just say thank you.”

I give him a shake of my head and take another forkful of cake, mixing the two.

Keen smiles as he watches me. His thumb moves back and forth against the inner skin of my wrist, and makes me melt a little more with each touch. When I look up after another bite, I notice his smile is sad. “To answer your question, I have a hate/hate relationship with my mother. And if you asked any of the dozen or so shrinks from my childhood, they would say I don’t trust women. Me, on the other hand, I say we’re all dealt a deck of cards called life, and we have to learn to play with the hand we’re holding.”

I blink. Shocked by his candidness. Shocked that he’s admitting this to me. Shocked that he feels this way toward Emma Fairchild. “Keen, I don’t know what to say. I just assumed you and Brooklyn both got along with your mother. In fact, I thought she had to be the reason you two were so close, since you were raised so far apart.”

“There’s nothing to say. It’s complete bullshit.” He drops hold of my hand and reaches into his pocket for his wallet, sliding out an American Express card and setting it inside the holder in the black billfold. The waiter is quick to retrieve it.

With the billfold out of the way, I reach over and grab his hand. “What is complete bullshit?”

His laugh is harsh and cold. “My relationship with my mother. She is not the reason my brother and I are close. It’s my father who made certain we saw each other. He’d fly Brooklyn out to see me, make the phone calls every week so we could talk, arrange for him to meet us on vacations. Fuck, I think my father was more of a father to Brooklyn than his own.”

“I’m sorry. I had no idea.”

“Nothing to be sorry about. Like I said, you work with the cards you’re dealt.”

“But life isn’t one giant poker game, Keen.”

“Isn’t it?”

I sip at my coffee and contemplate this. “You know, in some small way you just might be right.”

“It’s all or nothing, Maggie, all or nothing.”

I study him. His expression is impassive. The mask in place. “Is that how you feel about you and me?”

He whispers without hesitation, “After everything I put you through, and the fact that you’re sitting here with me right now, I have to say that I honestly have no fucking clue.”

I laugh, and say something so not me. “Me either, but I want to find out.”

“Me too,” he answers. Taking his credit card back that the waiter has just returned, he pushes to his feet. Then he walks over to me, pulling my chair out and offering his hand. I take it and suddenly I am pressed against him, his fingers kneading into the skin beneath my top, and his mouth at my ear whispering, “Let’s go.”

There is a slight crackle in the air, a subtle tension that screams to be released. I look into his eyes and see a reflection of exactly what I am feeling.

Need.

Desire.

And hope.

It’s the last one that will either topple both our walls or crumble them.