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“I know the perfect place.” Gesturing toward the door, he waited until Camila began to walk before following her out of the precinct and onto the sidewalk. Golden sunlight spilled down from a cloudless sky, the air carrying just a hint of crispness that promised fall right around the corner, and damn, how was it the same day as when he’d headed out for errands, feeling like today might hold hope?
Camila turned toward him expectantly. “Which way is this perfect place of yours?”
“It’s two blocks up, on Church Street.” Roman hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “It’s not fancy at all, but the tacos are great and they serve margaritas.”
“You had me at tequila,” she said, and Christ, this was going to be more than he’d bargained for.
But she was an adult, who could make her own (possibly stupid) decisions. The best he could do was make sure she stayed safe, so he said, “Tequila it is.”
Camila turned in the direction he’d pointed and began to walk. Roman fell in beside her, their footsteps keeping time on the sidewalk as they made their way to the restaurant. The walk took only minutes, and Roman slowed, gesturing to the door as they approached.
Camila’s brows lifted. “This place is called Juan More Taco?”
“You said tequila,” he reminded her, opening the door to usher her inside. “Plus, the tacos really will change your life.”
“Promises, promises,” she said, her eyes traveling over the restaurant’s interior, and okay, so Roman may have sugar-coated the “not fancy” aspect of the place. Large chalkboard murals of brightly colored sugar skulls decorated the walls like graffiti, interspersed with framed newspaper clippings of restaurant reviews. Light fixtures that matched the colors in the murals hung down from the ceiling, illuminating the dining room with a cheery glow. The space itself held less than a dozen tables, all empty now that the lunch rush had come and gone, and yeah, that was pretty much the extent of the place.
“Roman!” A fifty-something Latino man with dark hair, graying at the temples, greeted them from behind the counter to their left, his voice warm and his smile. “¿Cómo estás?”
“Hey, Juan. Not too bad,” Roman said, unable to help but smile a little.
Right up until Juan’s eyes landed on Camila and went wide as saucers, anyway. “And you brought a friend.”
Shit. “I, uh. Yeah. This is Camila. Camila, Juan.”
“Hola, Juan,” she said, exchanging what Roman recognized as a few pleasantries with the man in Spanish.
“What can I get you two today?” Juan asked, gesturing to the menu hand-lettered on the large chalkboard covering the wall behind the counter.
Camila’s gaze zeroed in on the frozen drink maker and the bottles of tequila and margarita mix. “I’d like the largest, strongest margarita you’ve got, please,” she said, and Roman bit back his urge to wince.
“Make it two.”
Juan, thankfully, kept his curiosity to his expression only. “Sure thing. Would you like your usual to eat, Roman?”
“Sure. And a double order of chips and salsa, please.”
Juan nodded. “How about you, Camila?”
Roman’s gut tightened in hope as Juan looked expectantly at Camila for a food order. For a second, he worried she might stick to a liquid lunch—she was so damn stubborn that way—but then she said, “Roman promised the tacos are life-changing, so I’ll have the usual, too.Gracias, Juan.”
“De nada. I’ll put your order in right away and have a server come by with your drinks. Sit anywhere you like,” Juan said with a smile, then disappeared into the kitchen.
Camila turned the full force of her curiosity on Roman the instant Juan was out of earshot. “You’re on a first-name basis with the restaurant owner?”
“When the food is good, sure.”
A hum drifted up from the back of her throat. “First, you take me day drinking, next, you’re actually friendly with another human being. Today is full of surprises.”
Roman’s gut clenched. After Gabi had died, he hadn’t seen much point in cooking for himself. Not that he couldn’t—his mama had raised him right, teaching him everything from good manners to how to cook any number of dishes. The fact that she’d been gone for nearly ten years now didn’t change those lessons,orhow ingrained they were. He made a mean gumbo and could even wrangle peach cobbler from scratch per her very own recipe if the occasion called for it. But now that it was just him and work, he didn’t see the point in a lot of culinary fanfare, so yeah, he’d gotten friendly (fine. As friendly as he ever got) with Juan since he’d eaten here roughly once a week for the past few years.
Not that he was going totellCamila any of that.
A few tables stood nearby, and he headed toward the closest one while they waited for their food to be ready. A server came by with two glasses of water and a bright-blue bowl overflowing with tortilla chips with a generous side of both pico de gallo and salsa verde, and Roman made a mental note to double the guy’s tip.
“You know, being freaked out by the fact that we were held at gunpoint this morning isn’t a bad thing,” he said, piling a handful of chips onto one of the small white plates their server had left them and handing it over before repeating the process for a plate he kept to himself.
She snorted, and Christ, how the hell did she make it so cute? “Says the guy who wasn’t freaked out even the tiniest bit.”
