But tonight, she didn’t want to think about being responsible. Or even having a future with this soulful man who sang to her heart. She just wanted to forget about the fact that she could be losing everything she had worked so hard for. She wanted to numb the pain of missing Papá.
She wanted to get lost in lust and pretend that her life wasn’t imploding.
He pressed a button on his keys, and a shiny tomatillo-green sports car beeped.
What the hell? What kind of car was that? She studied the silver emblem on the back. A McLaren? Julieta had only ever seen one in her life, and it had been inside a showroom in La Jolla. What kind of man drove a car like this?
Maybe he was some trust fund baby. Maybe it was his father’s car... though maybe not. He did say he went to Stanford. Maybe he had a high-paying finance job. Who else would spend a quarter of a million dollars on a car? Only a multimillionaire who had cash to burn or an idiot who lived above his means and tried to impress people.
He opened the door for her, and his hand brushed against her back as he helped her into her seat. Well, at least he was a gentleman. Or a player. Or both.
The cold, hard truth was that Julieta didn’t know a damn thing about this man she was about to go home with. Mamá would be so ashamed.
But this wasn’t about Mamá. This was about Julieta, for once in her life, taking a risk on something other than her cooking.
A risk on romance.
He popped the back of the car open and carefully placed his guitarrón in its case.
Once he got into the driver’s seat, Julieta touched his thigh. It was hard and muscular. “Nice car.” The tan leather was buttery soft.
Ay, Dios mío, please don’t let my makeup stain the interior.
“You like it?”
“Uh, yeah. Who wouldn’t? I’ve never been in a McLaren.”
“Most people haven’t. I know it’s showy.” He flashed a playful grin. “But I work hard. I deserve it.”
Well, at least he was confident. “You must.” What was his real name? Julieta wouldn’t ask again. It would surely come up as the night progressed.
They left Old Town and headed in the opposite direction of her home in Barrio Logan. Where did he live? La Jolla? Del Mar? Rancho Santa Fe?
They exited toward Pacific Beach. Yup. La Jolla. Definitely La Jolla.
As they drove down the main drag, Julieta looked at all the carefree college girls, sauced-up sailors, and mischievous Marines partying at the bars in Pacific Beach with a smattering of vagabonds on the side of the street. Julieta ached for the homeless. Housing in San Diego was expensive. So many people were one paycheck away from living on the streets. Julieta would probably find another job if her restaurant closed, but what about her employees? If they lost their jobs, many of them wouldn’t be able to pay rent. And what about Tiburón? He needed a job. Someone to take a chance on him.
Julieta focused her attention back on the sorority sisters and immodest Instagram influencers mingling with the muscular militarymen and blasé beach bros spilling out of bars and onto the busy sidewalk.
She had never gone to college, so she had no idea about that lifestyle. “It’s packed here. Is it normally this busy?”
“Yeah. Every weekend. Do you not go out much?”
“No, I don’t. I work nights.”
“So do I. Nights. Afternoons. Mornings. All the time.”
She smiled. She liked his work ethic. A rush of feelings came over her in a wave—maybe they were compatible. Julieta may not be wealthy, but she was top of her game in her career. She was a badass, and she knew it. “Well, I guess we have something in common then. What do you do, Romeo?”
“I run a business group. We have several properties throughout San Diego.”
“That’s cool.” That sounded both impressive and boring. Julieta didn’t understand the appeal of crunching numbers all day and schmoozing at golf courses. She preferred to be creative. She loved experimenting with classic cooking techniques and swapping in nontraditional ingredients. She had just perfected a recipe of lavender flan that she planned to put on the menu next week. Well, if there was a next week.
But clearly, he was successful. He drove a McLaren, and she had an old Honda with two hundred thousand miles on it. Not to mention she was about to lose her job, her restaurant, her life.
Stop. Stop thinking about it. Just for tonight.
He interlaced his fingers with hers. Her breath hitched. “Tell me more about yourself. What do you do for a living? And tell me your name, sweetheart?”
