“You will. You’re amazing. It’s like you become her on set.”
“You watch me?”
“Uh, yeah.” My face heats and I stare at the road, waiting for the light to change. “I mean, it’d be pretty hard not to.” I glance at Cora. “That’s why I’m there. To watch over Gwen’s artwork.”
“Mmm hmm.” Cora’s laughter calls my bluff. As if I could look anywhere else. She owns the room wherever she goes. Even now, when my eyes should be on the road, she steals my focus. She doesn’t try to hide her delight in that, catching my gaze between slows in traffic, and I like how forward she is. She doesn’t disguise her interest. In a world where so many play games, it’s refreshing.
Traffic slows as we cruise downtown by all the pop-up vendors setting up flood lights, tables, and chairs in preparation for a busy Saturday night. If we rolled down the windows, the scent of meats being smoked on the grill would greet us. In a few more hours it’ll be standing room only with neighborhood bands entertaining. If I didn’t have other plans, I’d stop at the corner where Mr. Sanchez whips up the best tacos. But I promised to show her my work, and I always keep my word.
I swing into the only open spot at Moreno’s. It’s packed now, but it’ll only get busier when they move most of the tables outside to create a dance floor. “Stay here,” I say as I cut the engine. I make my way around the truck and open her door, only to discover a frown on Cora’s face. Something happened to sour her good mood, and I have no clue what it could be. “Is everything okay?” Shit. Maybe she’s allergic to seafood or something. “Did you want to go somewhere else?”
“Uh, no.” Her face heats and she gives a tug at the seat belt. “I can’t get this off. I’m stuck.”
Oh. A smile works its way onto my lips. “Here, let me.” I step onto the running board and brace my hand next to the headrest, my other reaching across to her side. She pushes the release button and I tug with all my might. “Shit.” I pull again, several times, careful not to hurt her, but the seat belt strap locks and tightens across her chest. Jesus. I should be awarded sainthood for not staring. The seat belt practically shoves her breasts in my face. “This is really on here.”
“Please tell me I didn’t break it.” Her breath hits my neck. “That this happens all the time.”
“Wouldn’t know.” Jesus. This damn thing won’t budge! I resituate my body for more leverage and practically straddle her—except not in the sexual way I’d like. Sweat beads on my forehead and embarrassment floods my cheeks. This is not how I pictured our date going when I borrowed the vehicle. “It’s not my truck.”
“Fuck.” Her eyes widen with alarm and she joins me in tugging harder on the strap.
Shit. Does she think—? “I didn’t steal it.” I lean down to try to figure out why the button won’t release. “It’s a friend’s.”
“I didn’t think you did.” Her laughter floats around us, releasing some of my stress. “But I swear I’m cursed. I touch something and it’s bound to break.”
Moving her hands from the strap and ignoring the tingle of awareness of our close proximity, I adjust my angle and give the strap a hard yank. It releases with a jolt. “There.”
“My hero.” I think she intended for the words to be teasing, but when I turn, her lips mere inches from mine, desire rushes through my veins.
I have to kiss her. I can’t wait. Leaning closer, I crowd her personal space and wait for permission. “I can’t stop thinking about you.” It’s the truth.
Her bated breath pushes her breasts forward, and her tongue darts out to lick her lips. Her fingers crawl up the front of my shirt, gripping my collar. She tugs me forward and erases what little is left of the space between us. Our lips lock, and I swear a burst of fireworks crackle and boom in the distance.
They might be actual fireworks. It’s a summer Saturday night in Easton Heights, after all.
I brush my lips against hers, once, twice, and again until I lose count. Our kiss isn’t rushed or manic, though it certainly feels as combustible. The floral scent of her perfume invades my nostrils. She parts her lips and our tongues tangle in a sensual dance. I want to savor this moment and commit it to memory—one I can come back and visit forever. My body heats and tightens with the building need for more—of her, of this moment, of us.
She melts into my touch with a sigh that hums against my lips. I could die a happy man from that sound alone. But as much as I’d love to ditch our date for a two-hour make-out session in my friend’s truck, or go back to her place to pick up where we left off the other night, that’s not what this moment’s about. I want her to understand I’m not only interested in sex. I want to show her where I come from. My community. My art. Ravishing her body can come later.
I pull back slowly, enjoying the way her body tries to follow. “You hungry? We should probably head in.”
“Starved.”
I can’t tell if she’s referring to food or sex. Likely her intention. A soft chuckle escapes my mouth and I shake my head. This woman. She’s not afraid to ask for what she wants.
I duck my head and hop down from the truck, holding out my arm. She uses it to balance, jumping onto the pavement like she’s sporting Jordans and not killer heels. I make sure the Ford is locked, then reach for her hand, deciding to be bold. My fingers twine with hers. We’re a mix of light and dark, smooth and rough, success and struggle. There’s beauty in the contrast.
“This place is amazing.” Her gaze brightens when we step inside the basic cinder block building and are seemingly transported to another time and place. Bright colors paint the walls in reds, oranges and teals. The rustic décor of metal crafted lanterns and painted sculptures captures the essence of generations before.
“Isaac!” Someone shouts from across the room. Familiar faces lift and soon we’re crowded by old friends. I introduce Cora to my former co-workers, neighbors, and classmates. I haven’t been here in over a year, so it takes a good twenty minutes to catch up with everyone before I finally excuse us to find a table.
I spot an empty booth across the restaurant, but we’re stopped by a few more family friends before we make it there. If Cora’s overwhelmed by the onslaught of hugs from strangers or the lively conversations in a mix of English and Spanish bombarding our arrival she doesn’t let on. In fact, her smile grows wider as each minute passes.
“It’s been a while since I’ve been here,” I say, sliding into the bench across from hers at our table.
She reaches between a napkin holder and six different bottled hot sauces for two menus. “You used to come here a lot?” She hands one over and studies hers. I already know it by heart and take the opportunity to stare at her without being caught. Her eyes widen further when she flips to the other side. “I’m so hungry. I want it all.”
I watch her over my menu, delighting in her enthusiasm over the food. “We used to come here every other Friday. Payday. Really the only time we ate meals outside of the house. Not that I’m complaining; my mamá is a fantastic cook.”
“I can’t decide.” She folds the menu shut and lifts her gaze. “I don’t even want to try.”