“Just trust me.”
Juliet gave him a considering glance and then clutched her purse closer to her chest.
Dammit. She didn’t know him. Of course she didn’t trust him. New approach.
“Sorry. I should’ve been clearer. It’s just somewhere I visited earlier tonight. There will be lots of other people there. We won’t go anywhere you’re not comfortable.”
She exhaled. “Okay.”
Ramón led her out of the garden, and they slowly strolled down the main marigold-lined street, which still buzzed with energy. Though most of the children had gone home, the adults were ready to party. Ramón was pretty sure that Enrique and Jaime were already wasted somewhere, making jerks out of themselves.
He glanced at the woman by his side.Thank God I am here with her instead.
Ramón stopped in front of his restaurant, which was still open. “I’ll be right back. Wait here.”
Juliet looked at the Taco King awning and crinkled her nose.
“I’ll just sit on this bench until you come back.”
She walked a few steps away, sat down, and grabbed her phone.
Great. She hated Taco King. Which meant she would probably hate him.
His throat constricted. Many Mexicans disliked the restaurants, especially the Old Town location because it was set up to attract tourists. The waitresses all wore traditional Mexican gowns and kept their hair braided with brightly colored ribbons. There were roaming mariachis in classic garb. Margaritas were served in glassware the size of birdbaths. Ramón had to admit the restaurant was a bit gaudy. The place had been accused of cultural appropriation, which was bullshit. Mexicans always ripped off other Mexicans in the food industry—once a trend hit, every taquería in San Diego started changing their menus. And Mexican regional specialties had originated in other cultures anyway—pan dulces were influenced by the French, and al pastor was based on lamb shawarma from the Lebanese. Cooking was about experimentation and innovation.
Not that Taco King did much in the way of innovation. They stuck to the tried-and-true classics and gave Americans what they wanted—basic Mexican food at affordable prices.
Maybe it was for the best Juliet didn’t know his true identity. She may not be so interested in spending time with him if she blamed him for tarnishing the name of good Mexican food.
Ramón opened the door and went inside. Would Juliet even still be waiting when he emerged?
Despite being in costume, the waitress immediately recognized him. Though he was rarely at this location, a picture with Papá, Ramón, and his brothers adorned the wall.
The woman batted her eyelashes. “Hola, Ramón. How can I help you?”
He glanced at her name tag. “Hey, Ana Maria. I need two candles, a box of matches, two pieces of paper, a pen, and four shot glasses, por favor.”
“Got it. One second.”
She went to the back and quickly returned holding a bag.
“Here you go. Need anything else?”
“Nope, that’s it. Thanks.”
“Anytime, Ramón.”
He left the restaurant and was pleased to find Juliet still sitting on the bench. He stopped to stare at her for a moment before he approached. Her long black hair cascaded down her back, ending right above her curvy hips. He was a lucky man that someone else hadn’t come by and seduced her away from him.
He walked over to her and handed her a candle.
She eyed him. “What are you doing? The procession was at eight. They walked right by me.”
Ramón nodded. He had watched earlier as hundreds of people carried candles and walked en masse to the graveyard. The community coming alive to respect the dead.
“Well, we will do our own. For your father.”
“Really?” Her mouth opened and closed. “Thank you.”
