Page 25 of Sweet Heart

“Mary.” She nods and then steps forward.

She places her hand against the small of my back as she confirms her reservation in rapid Spanish. I blink but follow her as she guides me to our table. Her hand is an anchor in this cacophony of energy. She only removes it to pull back the chair for me, and I feel my face flush again.

“You don’t ha—”

“I do.” She cuts me off before I can even finish the thought.

There is no room for debate, so I just smile softly at her and sit down. The small nod she gives me somehow calms me instead of riling me up, and I feel myself settling into the place. I try to pick up the menu, but Cat has already flagged down the waiter.

“Start us off with the ceviche, followed by ropa vieja. We’ll close with one Abuela’s Pudding to share. Two glasses of Sauvignon Blanc and table water too, thank you.”

There is no hesitation as she places the order. Cat barely even blinks as the waiter nods and disappears, but then her gaze falls on mine. Her jaw ticks once, and she curls her fingers inward before she slightly dips her head.

“I hope that was okay? If you prefer something el—”

“No, that was fine,” I hurry to say and then smile at her. “I actually enjoyed seeing you do that.”

“Order food?”

I shake my head. That wasn’t it. It was the decisiveness, the way she knew what she wanted and went for it. It made me feel safe and taken care of.

“Just your certainty,” I offer, my throat a bit tight.

Her eyes study me for a beat before she nods and smiles again.

“Good.”

And that’s that.

“So tell me,” I say, grinning as I eye her over the rim of my third glass of wine, “what makes this the best roppa viega in the city?”

Cat’s lips curl up, and she leans forward. Her hand hovers in the air, and for the briefest of moments, I think she is going to place it over mine. Instead, she rests her fingers next to my hand. Close enough to feel the warmth of her skin, but far enough not to be touching. Her eyes hold mine though, unaware of the heat spreading through my belly.

“Ropa vieja,” she corrects me gently, and I find myself repeating her.

“Buena.”

She smiles, and her whole face softens. Gosh, she is gorgeous.

“It isn’t the best. That would be my mother’s. No one can match her cooking. She does it with so much passion, almost as much as she has for dancing.”

“Dancing?”

“Sí, she is a dance instructor. Salsa, bachata, merengue. I doubt there is anybody with more rhythm than her.”

She leans back again, taking a sip of her wine and letting her gaze roam over me. I swallow and feel my cheeks burn, but something in her eyes tells me to wait instead of speaking. She is processing something, and if I talk now, that will be interrupted forever. So, I hold my tongue and let her study me.

“Ropa vieja is… comfort food. Mi mamá makes it on special occasions. She spends hours in the kitchen, and it makes the whole house smell like tomate y comino.”

Her accent thickens slightly, and her sharp eyes soften. Almost as if she sinks into another persona. The strict, cold trauma surgeon has now completely vanished into the background, making room for this warm woman filled with love for her family. My belly flips as I watch her, and she isn’t even aware of the effect she has on me.

“What does it mean? Ropa vieja?” I ask, my eyes tracing the movement of her lips.

“Old clothes,” she chuckles, and I feel my eyebrows go up.

“That’s oddly… poetic.”

She snorts.