Page 6 of Broken Chords
Glancing down at her, my smile is irrepressible. Even if I wanted to hold it back, there’s no way I’d be able to. Not with her. I don’t know what she sees in me that she likes, but the way she’s smiling and laughing with me, I’m not going to overthink it and ruin this. Not even my date with Lauren started off this well, and I’d been over the moon when she’d agreed to go out with me. I hadn’t realized at the time that she’d meant it as something platonic.
This, though? The way she keeps looking up at me, the smile stretching across her lips, how close she’s walking next to me? Nothing about this screams platonic to me.
“How do you feel about Mexican food?” I slide the key in the lock of the passenger door of my beat-up Subaru and open it for her. My car’s old and seen better days, but it still runs great, and the hatchback means I have plenty of room to haul my cello around.
She waits for me to fold myself into the driver’s side before answering my question. “I like it.”
“Good. I know a great place. Locally owned.”
“Cool. Is it one of those places where they know you and what you always order before you even sit down?”
I chuckle, looking behind me before pulling out of the parking spot. “Something like that. Maybe not for everyone, but they know me that well.”
A quick glance at her reveals raised eyebrows and a tiny smile, calling my attention to her mouth again. Those lips are going to be the death of me. I force my gaze back to the road, both so I don’t crash and so I don’t miss whatever she says.
“You go there that often?”
God, I can’t stop smiling. “Well, it happens to be owned by my uncle. I used to work there. Still do sometimes when I need extra cash or they’re short staffed if I have the time.”
“Wow, that’s cool. I’ve known a few restauranteurs in California. It’s nice to have an in at a good place.”
“Uh, I’m not sure I’d go so far as to call my uncle a restauranteur, but he’s good at what he does. And it is nice to always know I can get in whenever I want. As long as I don’t mind the third degree.”
Soon, I pull into the cracked and pitted asphalt parking lot of Marco’s Cantina, a rectangular brick building with a faded yellow and red sign and neon glowing in the windows. “Here we are. It doesn’t look like much, but the food is delicious. And they serve house-made tortilla chips. The best in town.” I gesture at the vinyl banner hanging on the door that shows they were voted Spokane’s best Mexican restaurant the last three years.
She flashes me a big smile as she unbuckles, apparently not needing my reassurance. “This is great. I love finding hole-in-the-wall places. They’re usually the best.” She waves a hand. “Michelin starred restaurants have good food, but they’re so stiff and formal that they’re not very fun. I mean, don’t get me wrong, sometimes it’s nice to be fancy, but I prefer to keep those to like once a month or so. This looks perfect.” And she climbs out, leaving me blinking after her in shock for a second before scrambling out of the car to meet her around front. Gourmet restaurants once a month?
But I have no time to contemplate that because she’s headed for the door. At just after five o’clock on a Wednesday, only a few other cars occupy the parking lot. The midweek dinner rush is lighter and starts closer to six. At least it always did when I worked here with my uncle and his family.
I open the door for Charlie and, without thinking, place my hand on the small of her back again to guide her inside. It’s not until she glances at me over her shoulder and gives me another bright smile that I realize she didn’t stiffen at my touch this time. Which makes me smile back at her. Tonight is going to be perfect.
