“Well, it doesn’t matter because nothing is happening between me and Luke. And I have a date tonight.” I stop and stand in front of her. “How do I look?”
She takes a step forward, frowning. She adjusts the top of the V-neck floral dress I’m wearing and then sighs as she tucks my bangs into place and adjusts the low-hanging ponytail so it cascades over my shoulder.
“There,” she says, her hands falling to her sides. “You look gorgeous.”
“Thank you,” I say before grabbing my purse off my bed.
“Have fun with potential kiss number fifty.”
“Right now I’m just hoping to make it to a second date,” I tell her.
“Then I hope he’s normal.”
“Fingers crossed,” I say, and then hook the strap of my purse over my shoulder.
“And if he’s not, you’re always welcome to ditch him and come hang out with us,” she says, following me as I head toward the front door of the apartment.
Sam has friends coming over tonight, so it worked out perfectly that I had plans. Not that I’m opposed to hanging out with her and her work friends; it’s just that Colin will be one of them. I think I’ll pass on a night of method acting and whatever else she and her fellow aspiring thespians do for fun.
We say goodbye, Sam a little grudgingly, and I drive the twenty minutes it takes to go four miles in this town, arriving at Alma Rosa with only five minutes to spare.
I have to park on the street and pay, since the tiny lot at the restaurant is full. Which takes me another four minutes and means I’m barely on time as I walk up to the entrance of the building with its faded blue exterior and string lights hanging across the roofline.
The smell of garlic and onions and freshly baked tortillas fills the air, and my stomach rumbles. I’ve barely eaten all day.
“Are you Claire?” says a tall man with dark-brown hair and even darker brown eyes, standing just under the Spanish tile awning as I approach.
Oh, wow. He’s handsome in his dark jeans, a well-fitted button-down left untucked, and clean white sneakers.
“You must be Chris,” I say, holding out a hand for him to shake.
That’s right, his name is Chris. I looked it up before I left and said it a bunch of times in the car on the way over to put it to memory.
He grasps my hand in his, which is firm and warm. Also, he was waiting for me when I got here. Very prompt. We are off to a good start already.
It would be good to have Sam here, just so she can see this handsome man, and what I’m sure is a hopeful face from me, so she’ll forget about Luke Wilder entirely.
“Should we go inside?” Uh . . . Chris asks. His name isChris. Dang it. He points toward the entrance to the cozy-looking restaurant.
“Sounds great,” I tell him.
We walk toward the door, and I reach for it, wondering if he’ll cut me off to grab it himself . . . but he doesn’t. He lets me open it, a rush of cold air spilling out.
It shouldn’t annoy me. I can open my own doors, obviously. But it rankles a little. It doesn’t help that I’m suddenly picturing Luke. Smiling at me as he holds the door, gesturing for me to go inside first.
Nope. We are not thinking about Luke right now. We are thinking about . . . um . . . Chris.
Dammit.
We walk inside, and he asks for a table. We’re promptly seated at a wooden table toward the back of the restaurant, which is well decorated with mismatched clay-colored tiles on the floor and terra-cotta-painted walls.
“Thanks for meeting me here,” he says as we settle in, after a server—an older gentleman, probably in his fifties—poured us some water. Chris did not ask for room-temperature water, and that feels like a good omen for the night.
Someone else brings us a bowl of chips and two kinds of salsa, which I don’t touch because it’s on my no-list for first-date foods. Too many chances of spilling salsa or chip crumbs in . . . unbecoming . . . places.
Obviously, this knowledge comes from experience.
“Thanks for . . . um . . . inviting me,” I say, and then let out a nervous-sounding laugh.
