Play Dates Page 4

  Monica glanced up from the menu. “I don’t recognize some of the dishes listed here. What kind of fusion is this?”

  “Fusion?” He looked at the laminated parchment as if he might cop a clue from the entrées section.

  “I thought maybe there’d be an Asian influence. I hear the whole Korean-Mexican fusion thing is supposed to be awesome.”

  “Oh. No. Nothing fused.” He flashed an apologetic smile. “It’s Colombian. Authentic Colombian,” he added, desperate to make the cramped restaurant seem somewhat more hip and cool.

  “Oh.” Color rose in her cheeks as she turned her attention to the selections again. “I assumed…You said like Mexican…I’ll shut up.”

  Colm chuckled, charmed by her strange mix of brash and bashful. “Well, like Mexican in some ways, but a little different.”

  “Was Aiden’s mother Hispanic?”

  He should have expected the question. Not a difficult conclusion, given his son’s coloring, and absolutely correct. “Yes.” But he didn’t want to talk about her. Or Aiden. Or anything remotely relating to Princess Clarissa and her cartoon cohorts. Leaning in close, he held her gaze. “I’d like to make a couple of rules for the evening, if you’re game.”

  “I think I might be game.” She gave him a coy half-smile. “What kind of rules did you have in mind?”

  He watched in rapt fascination as she ran her finger around the rim of her glass. “No kid talk,” he blurted. Colm grimaced when he saw her flinch the slightest bit. “I mean, they’re great, and Aiden is the most important person in the world to me, as I’m sure Emma is for you,” he continued in a rush. “But you have no idea how long it’s been since I’ve had an adult night out. And I have to admit, even longer since I’ve had one with a woman.” He cringed a little when her eyebrows shot upward. “I mean, like I said at the park, a date. With a woman. Not a guy. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.” He added the line with a nervous chuckle, and at last she cracked.

  Her laugh rang out, clear and unchecked. The sound held the barest hint of rasp, but every hair on his arms rose in response. “Okay. I’m with you. No kid talk.”

  Relieved, he set his menu aside and reached for the IPA Especial he’d ordered. The beer was cold and crisp but did little to quench the thirst building inside of him.

  “Listen, I don’t want to…Like I said, it’s been a long time. And I know I said I don’t want to talk about the kids—and I don’t—but I feel like I should be straight with you.”

  Monica lowered her menu but raised an eyebrow. “Okay. Be straight.”

  He winced at the implication but didn’t take the bait. “I don’t know how…involved I can get. I don’t have time to catch up on laundry, much less dating, and I’d hate—”

  She held up one hand to stop him. “Colm.”

  “Yes?”

  “It’s fine. Let’s just…see how things go.”

  He exhaled loudly and turned loose a relieved smile. “Sounds good.”

  Returning her attention to the menu, she murmured, “As long as you are straight.”

  “Oh, I am,” he assured her.

  Wrapping his hand around the beer bottle, he gave her time to peruse the choices at her leisure as the familiar scents and sounds enfolded him like a warm blanket. Up until he finally gave the go-ahead on the overnights with his parents, he and Aiden had come here every Saturday night.

  For the first three years of Aiden’s life, Pablo and Carita had been the only family he and his son had. His own parents lived a mere thirty miles away, but disapproved of his marriage. His late wife shared no blood connection with the couple, but family ties hadn’t mattered. They were the ones who’d been there for him through thick and thin. Bad and worse. Secrets and lies.

  Monica placed her menu on top of his and reached for her sangria. “I think I’ll let you order for me.”

  A rush of pure masculine pleasure pulsed through him. Leaning forward, he tapped his fingertips against the menus. “Any restrictions?”

  “None whatsoever,” she answered, her gaze unwavering.

  Heat exploded inside him. He was on fire. Like the time Carmen teased him into biting into a habanero, but this time every inch of him burned. Particularly the inches that hadn’t had the attention of a good woman in way too long. “Here we are, us grown-ups, trying our best not to humiliate ourselves.” He drew his finger through the condensation on his beer bottle. “I doubt I’ll pull it off.”

  “The evening is young,” she intoned gravely, cracking herself up.

  He tried not to gape like a schoolboy at the way her high, small breasts made the slinky top she wore shimmer. The bright blue color made him picture waves of water cascading over her. He could see the scene so clearly, droplets sliding down her throat and pooling at the hollow in the center. His mouth on her. Licking, sipping, tasting each tantalizing stretch of skin. His hands on her long, lithe body. Her hands on the tile walls of his shower stall. A fast-running current of water rushing along the curve of her spine. His fingers gripping her hips. Lifting. Tilting. Sinking—

  “Well, if I had any doubts you were straight, you’ve certainly put them to rest.”

  The erection he’d been trying to hold at bay went from half-mast to battering ram in the blink of an eye. He jerked his head up. Frank blue eyes bore into him. He pushed the sleeves of his sweater up a little, hoping to release some of the heat building inside him, but there was no escaping. He knew she could read his every thought. And the smile curving her lips told him she liked what she saw. Thank Christ.

  “I’m sorry.” The words came automatically, even if the shame he expected to accompany them didn’t. Parenthood made a guy a master of insincere apology.

  “Part of me wants to demand you to tell me exactly what you were thinking, but the look on your face says your thoughts aren’t fit for public consumption.”

  Every muscle in his body tensed. The tips of his ears felt like someone was taking a blowtorch to them. He reached for his beer, knowing the glass couldn’t hold the fluid ounces he’d need to rehydrate his parched mouth. He gulped down a few anyway. He’d need juice to ask the questions pulsing through him. “And the other part?”

  This time, Monica leaned in close, offering him a couple extra millimeters of skin. As if he needed incentive. “The other part wants you to show and tell.”

  “Oh, holy hell,” he whispered. She gave him a smug smile. The struck stupid had to be showing on his face, but he was too far gone to care. “How hungry are you?”

  “For food?” she countered.

  Colm was waving to get the waitress’s attention when the kitchen door burst open and Pablo charged out. The older man was short and almost as round as he was tall. His ever-present white apron was so stained and splattered with sauces they could have stretched the coated cotton over a frame and hung the apron in any modern art museum. The edges of his mustache drooped even as he beamed at them. He approached the table with his arms spread wide, and as Colm rose to his feet, he knew any chance he had at escape was gone.

  “Co-lum, Co-lum,” Pablo crowed as he wrapped him up in a bear hug, oblivious to the food spatters he was transferring to Colm’s clothes. “Too long. Carita is so angry you’ve stayed away, she won’t even come kiss you,” he announced, waving the wooden spoon clutched in his hand. The exuberant man proceeded to plant a smacking kiss on each of Colm’s cheeks.

  The warmth and welcome he saw in his old friend’s eyes trumped the urge to wipe the kisses away. Aiden could get away with refusing the show of affection, no problem, but Colm valued Pablo’s friendship too much to risk insulting the man. “Pablo, this is my, uh, friend, Monica Rayburn.”

  Like a laser-guided missile, Pablo homed in on his date. “Mees Mon-i-ca.”

  Colm snorted at the man’s exaggerated accent, but kept an eagle eye on the old goat. If the stories he told were only h
alf-true, Pablo had cut quite a swath in his day.

  “I ham so honored.”

  “You are a ham,” Colm murmured.

  The widening of his friend’s smile told him Pablo heard and acknowledged the hit, but insults weren’t about to stop him. “Why would such a bee-u-ti-ful woman waste time with this pasty, er, how you say? Galoot?”

  Colm was about to point out that Pablo had lived in the States for over thirty years and knew exactly how to say everything he needed to say. Without another word, the sneaky bastard tossed his wooden spoon onto the table as if he never intended to stir a pot again and extended a hand to help Monica from her chair. “Come, I will show you. Latino men really are hot-blooded. We know how to pleasure a woman.”

  Clearly mesmerized by Pablo’s dog and pony show, Monica placed her hand in his and rose from her seat. In her short skirt and high heels, she towered over the rotund chef, but old Pablo didn’t seem to mind at all. The sneaky little bastard had a straight shot at the spot Colm had been ogling minutes ago.

  “Wait a minute,” Colm protested.

  Pablo drew Monica’s hand to his lips, then tucked her fingers securely into the crook of his arm, beaming up at her the entire time. “Come with Pablo, sweet lady. You’re too good for this potato farmer.”

  “Hey!” They were halfway to the kitchen door. Pablo was actually making off with his date. “Hang on a second!”

  He dodged a waitress shouldering a loaded tray and ducked into the steaming kitchen in time to see Carita turn away from the counter. Plates of food in varying stages of assembly stood arrayed in front of her, the apron tied at her trim waist miraculously white.

  “Look what your feckless Irishman has brought us, Carita.”

  The lines in Carita’s work-worn face smoothed into a blank slate. They slowly reformed as brackets around her red-painted lips and a delicate fan of crinkles at the corners of her eyes. “Ah, so this is why the worthless boy has forsaken me,” she said with a fatalistic shrug.

  Rushing out from behind the counter, she tugged Monica’s hand from Pablo’s grasp and clasped her palm in both of hers. “Now I understand.” Carita looked past Monica to seek him out. Their gazes met and held, and he saw all he needed to see. Affection, acceptance, understanding, and forgiveness. “But know if I were but ten years younger, he’d choose me.”

  He couldn’t fight both of them off, so he gave in and stepped forward. Surrendering to their bullying didn’t mean he was giving up his date, though. Placing a hand at the small of Monica’s back, he moved in close at her side. She jolted at the contact, but didn’t pull away. Instead, a delicate shiver ran through her. Colm bit the inside of his cheek as his blood began to sizzle. There’d be no early escape. They were stuck in this kitchen until they were stuffed to the gills.

  Bending at the waist, he kissed Carita’s cheeks with every bit as much affection as Pablo had shown him, but with more restraint and, he hoped, less slobber. “If you’d even looked at me twice, Carita, I’d choose you.”

  “Oh, go on.” Giving him a swat with the edge of her apron, she nodded to a scarred wooden table in the corner of the kitchen. “You go sit.” Shooing them along, she snapped her fingers and Pablo jumped to attention. “Get them a bottle of the Chilean chardonnay.”

  Knowing the effort was useless, Colm put up a token resistance. “Uh, I was drinking beer and Monica had sangria.”

  Carita shook her head adamantly. “No red wine. No beer.” She tapped her temple, nudging them closer to the table. “I knew today would be special. As I lay in my bed last night, a thought came to me…I needed to make my Mamita’s lechona today. Now I know I make lechona for you.”

  Shooting him a half-amused but mostly bewildered glance, Monica slid into one of the hard slat-back chairs. “Maybe we could eat in the dining room?” Colm suggested, nodding toward the swinging door. “We don’t want to be in your hair.”

  “Ay, my hair!” Carita patted the messy knot of silver-streaked ebony piled atop her head. “You sit here. If I take my Mamita’s lechona out there, they will stampede my kitchen.”

  “Lechona?” Monica asked, her bright eyes eager and inquisitive.

  Carita clapped her hands. “Very special. Must cook all day.” She nodded to the brick oven in the wall. “I put it in at four o’clock this morning, and now I serve to you.”

  She fired off a barrage of orders in Spanish so fast Colm could only pick out a word or two, then bustled to her ovens.

  Reaching across the battered table where he’d eaten so many meals, he touched Monica’s hand to get her attention. “I’m sorry. I wanted to take you someplace special, and I don’t go to too many restaurants that don’t give a toy with your meal.” He frowned as he took in their anything-but-romantic surroundings. “I should have known they’d take over.”

  “This is amazing,” she said, her gaze darting from point to point as she soaked up the frenzy of activity. She flipped her hand over and wrapped her fingers around his, giving them a gentle squeeze. “I gather you’ve known them a long time?”

  “Years. They used to have a place over on the west side. I worked the neighborhood when I was fresh out of the academy.” He tugged at his collar, wishing he’d opted for a shirt instead of the sweater. Between his nerves and the heat of the kitchen, he’d end up nothing but a puddle by dessert. Eager to distract her from his growing agitation, he forged ahead with his story. “Some of the gangbangers over there decided they wanted to target the non-Mexican Latinos.”

  “Wow. I had no idea there were such tensions between the Hispanic communities.”

  “Because most white people hear someone speaking Spanish and lump them all together. At least, I did.” He glanced up as Pablo approached with a chilled bottle of wine and two glasses in hand. “I was nothing but a pasty Irish kid from the south side. Everyone who speaks Spanish is Mexican, right, Pablo?”

  His friend set the glasses in front of them and poured the golden wine. Sets of flatware rolled in linen napkins appeared on the table. Colm turned to thank him, and was smacked upside the head. Hard. He shifted to Monica, his mustache pushed to the limits as he turned on the charm. “Run away with me, pretty lady. You deserve much better than this ignorant mick.”

  Colm smirked as he took a cautious sip of the wine. “Hey, I think you left some of your accent out in the dining room, a-meeee-go.”

  “Hush, both of you,” Carita hissed, bumping her husband aside with her hip. “The poor girl is going to think she’s visiting the lunatic asylum.” She served them beautifully arranged plates. Rice and pork spilled out of triangles of crispy golden crust. Wedges of lime, seared tortillas, and whole red potatoes occupied the rest of the space, but the mouthwatering scent of garlic, onion, and spice made it clear they were mere supporting characters.

  “Mm, Carita mia,” Pablo groaned as he caught a whiff of the bounty she’d placed in front of them. Drawing his wife to his side, he lowered his eyelids and gave her a long, smoldering look. “Tell me you saved a bit for your Pablo.”

  Giggling like a girl, she shoved him away. “Get to work, Don Juan,” she chided. “We’ll leave these two to enjoy and perhaps you’ll get yours later.”

  Monica looked up from her plate. The gleam in her bright blue eyes told him she was thinking exactly what he was thinking.

  Swallowing the lump of nerves and desire knotting his throat, he raised his wine glass. “To getting bossed around.”

  Her eyes twinkled with mischief when she lifted her glass to touch his. She smiled sweetly as she murmured, “And here I thought you’d want to drink to getting yours later.”

  Chapter 3

  The rest of dinner flowed as easy as the wine. Monica wondered briefly if she could order a vat of the yummy Chilean chardonnay with a spigot. Colm was as funny as he was gruff. Self-effacing, but most certainly assured. Mixed with the wine and the succulent meal, a potent combination. S
he had a hard time holding onto her balance as they said their goodbyes to Pablo and Carita.

  The hand Colm planted to guide her made her feel both wobbly and utterly secure. The heat of his gaze made her skin prickle. As they wound their way from the kitchen to the exit, her eyes darted toward the doorway leading to the restrooms. She could grab him. Take him. Clasp his big, strong hand, yank him into the ladies’ room, and press him up against the wall. Tension wafted off him like summer heat. He wanted her every bit as much as she wanted him. He was hers for the taking.

  “I’ll see you home.”

  Though the words drifted past her ear on a low, throaty whisper, she almost jumped out of her skin. His hand slid down to her hip to hold her close as he reached past her to open the restaurant door. Wetting her lips, she glanced over her shoulder as she stepped out into the crisp, clean night air. “I was hoping you would.”

  His warm palm landed in the small of her back again. “Did you drive?”

  She wanted to do a wiggle dance to see if she could work his hand a bit lower but resisted the temptation. They’d get there soon. She had a rock solid knot of certainty balled in her gut. The same one she got when she knew the perfect time to buy or sell. This was going to happen. And they would be good together.

  “I took a cab.” She glanced down at the killer stilettos on her feet. “These shoes are not made for walking.”

  “No, but I can tell you exactly what they’re made for,” he murmured as he steered her toward the closest corner.

  Tickled by his blunt assessment and preening a little, Monica decided to play against type and try coy on for size. “Oh? What are they made for?”