Page 43 of Time for Change

He flashes me a warm, happy smile, looking totally edible in his jeans and black button-down shirt. “Hey. You look great,” he says, stepping inside the apartment and giving me a kiss on the cheek. “Ready?”

“Yep. Let me grab my coat,” I reply, moving to the kitchen chair where my coat hangs. As I go to slip it on, he’s there, holding the back to allow me to easily slide my arms into the sleeves. “Thanks.”

He grins, and even though it was a gentlemanly gesture, I can’t help but catch a hint of something that looks naughty in his eyes, as if maybe the idea of undressing me instead of helping me add another layer of clothing.

“All set,” I tell him, grabbing my small bag and heading for the door.

We make our way out of my apartment, ensuring the locks are in place, and down to his truck. Jack opens the passenger door for me and waits while I climb inside and fasten my seat belt. Once I’m set, he secures my door and gets behind the wheel. “Mexican still good?” he asks, as he starts up the truck.

“Definitely. I’ve been thinking about chips and queso all day,” I answer with a chuckle.

He grins, backing out of the parking spot. “They have great queso. My daughter, Gianna, gets it on top of her rice and chicken.”

“Oh, that sounds good.” And because I find myself truly interested, I ask, “What does your son eat?”

“Chips,” he states with a laugh. “He does eat queso too, but he could sit there and fill himself completely on the chips alone. I have to force him to eat a cheese quesadilla just so he doesn’t go tell his mom I only fed him chips for dinner.”

I can’t help but chuckle. “Would she believe him?”

He shakes his head. “No. She knows his games too. He’s a fairly picky eater, which I guess all four-year-olds are, to an extent.”

“I’m sure.” I try not to think about my own childhood, where I didn’t get much of an opportunity to figure out what I liked and disliked. At that point, food was food, and even if I didn’t like something, I ate it.

To this day, I can’t eat peanut butter. It was the one thing I could always find in the house to eat, most of the time with bread. Mom loved peanut butter and would always stick her fingers in it when she needed a snack. She never bothered with a spoon or fork or even a slice of bread. It was always her fingers—sans handwashing.

Maybe I would have liked it more with jelly? Jellies and jams were a luxury we didn’t have in our household, so I wouldn’t know. Even when I was at school and couldn’t afford lunches, it was a plain peanut butter sandwich I was given to eat.

“How about you? What’s your go-to Mexican dish?” he asks, glancing my way as he drives toward the downtown area.

I shrug. “I usually just get tacos, because I don’t really know what the menu says,” I reply with an awkward chuckle.

“Te tengo.” He glances my way and winks.

My throat goes dry as I look his way. This man has surprises around every turn, and no, they’re not all bad. Not only is he gorgeous, a great dad, and runs a successful business but, apparently, he speaks Spanish too.

“What did you say?”

“I told you I’ve got you.” With that, he reaches over and places his hand on top of mine and gives it a gentle squeeze.

A few minutes later, we’re pulling into the parking lot for the restaurant and another wave of anticipation sweeps through me. Before I can get too worked up, the passenger door opens and there’s Jack, wearing a friendly smile and offering his hand. The moment I take it, a zap of electricity races through my veins. The heat of his palm against mine makes me shiver, makes my nipples harden.

“Shall we?”

I nod, unable to speak for fear I’ll tell him to just skip dinner and take me back home.

And ravish me.

We step inside the entrance and are bathed in delicious aromas and upbeat Spanish music. “Welcome, how many?” a petite older woman asks when we approach the hostess stand.

“Two please,” Jack replies, waving to someone at a nearby table.

“Booth or table?”

“Booth.”

We follow behind her, and I can feel the eyes of everyone in the room on me. I keep my eyes focused straight ahead on the back of the woman who’s leading me to a table and try not to worry about everyone else. However, it’s difficult. I’m certain they’re all wondering who I am. Jack is a local businessman, born and raised here. He’s raising his own family. And who am I? I can practically feel their curiosity, their judgment, reaching out and touching me like a caress.

“This okay?” the woman asks, but the words for a reply seem to stick in my throat.

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