He smiles. “Yes, I work mostly from home, but occasionally venture to the office. Speaking of which, I’d love to take you there sometime.”
“Where… to your office?”
“Dig in,” he urges as he grabs a tortilla. “The pink sauce is for the tacos.”
I follow suit, my stomach growling. It all looks so delicious, and my mouth is watering. I haven’t eaten all day, too nervous about the upcoming night. Thankfully, I feel more relaxed now. I suspect that the wine had a little something to do with that. A full glass on an empty stomach usually has that effect on me.
“To the warehouse,” he clarifies. “It’s remarkable to see it happen. Those guys are truly artists.”
He’s talking about the people who make the instruments. “I bet.”
He wraps his taco up. “I say guys, but we have a few women employees as well.”
We eat in silence for a while, both famished. “This is great,” I manage between bites. I’m a glutton as I dig into the guacamole and nachos. It’s all so good.
“So tell me more about your work,” I ask, careful to stay away from private family matters since I know there’s a lot of drama and heartache there.
“I pretty much oversee the business end. I also like to be hands-on, and you often see me in the studio.”
“I bet you play a lot of guitar,” I quip.
He smiles. “You got me. Probably more than I should. I’m not the most productive employee.”
“Well, you can get away with it since you’re the boss’s son,” I tease, and as soon as the words are out of my mouth, I regret them because he doesn’t seem to find them very funny. I’m afraid I’ve stuck my foot in my mouth. Was it the mention of his father? Or the obvious fact that he’s privileged? “I didn’t mean anything by that,” I’m quick to say. “I know you work hard.”
He nods, and ventures a bite of his salad.
“Uh… are you having another party next month?” I ask, desperate to change the subject.
“That’s the plan,” he says, and his answer doesn’t sit very well with me. It makes me wonder what this night is all about. I wonder if he has many dates like this. I’m probably not the only one he’s wining and dining. I sigh at the thought. Well, at least the food is good. A free meal that I don’t have to cook myself is always a plus.
I’m polishing off my plate when he asks if I like Tartufo.
I smile. “An Italian dessert with a Mexican meal? That’s kind of original. I like it.”
He shoots me a sexy grin. “Well, my dad is Italian, and my mother was Mexican, so I think it fits.”
“Really?” I’d guessed that his father was Italian, but I’m surprised to learn his mother was Mexican.
“My dad met my mom when she worked for his family as a maid,” he tells me. “Needless to say, my grandparents were not impressed.”
“In other words, your grandparents are snobs.”
He grins widely. “You’ve got them pegged. They’re still alive, and as snobby as ever.”
I laugh. “So is this, like, a reenactment of the past?” I joke. “Rich guy and poor girl from the wrong side of the tracks? That turns you on, doesn’t it?” I tease. “The apple doesn’t fall from the tree, I guess.”
He reaches for my hand. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Undervalue yourself. When I look at you, I don’t see a girl from the wrong side of the tracks. I see a smart independent woman who is a lot more interesting than most women I know.”
His words leave me speechless.
“Enough about me,” he says. “What about you? What is your ancestry? I’m curious.”
“My father is Polish,” I tell him, “and my mom is a plain Anglo-Saxon American, blonde and blue eyed.”
