Page 7 of Body Shot

What the hell. Moments later, I have the camisole on over my jeans. I inspect my reflection in the mirror and make a face.

“Let me do your hair,” Carrie says.

“I don’t know if I have enough patience for that.”

“It’ll be quick.” Carrie moves to the bathroom and plugs in the flat iron sitting on the long white marble vanity. “I need a hair tie.”

“That I have.” The only hairstyle I can accomplish is a ponytail, which is most often how I wear my hair. I pull open a drawer and hand the elastic band to Carrie.

Carrie turns me by the shoulders, brushes my hair over one shoulder, and does a messy fishtail braid, leaving some pieces loose at front. Then she gives those pieces a quick bend with the flat iron. “Nice,” she pronounces.

Again I survey my image in the mirror. “Huh. Thatiskind of nice.”

“Okay. We’re all set.” Carrie unplugs the flatiron. “Heels would look great, but if we want to walk to the bar we need to wear flats.” She frowns.

“I’m fine with flats.” I rarely wear heels because I’m on my feet and running around all day, every day, and flats are more practical.

We walk up to Grand Avenue and then toward the Pacific Ocean. As we approach, its salty scent carries on the breeze, rustling the palm trees lining the sidewalk. The lowering sun casts a golden light over everything. “So beautiful,” I murmur, looking out over the sand and water. I don’t take enough time to appreciate the beauty around me. I know that. I’m just busy.

“It is. This is the place.” Carrie stops in front of a white stucco building with arched windows and red clay tiled roof. Above the door is a stylized black and white conquistador on a horse and the name Conquistadors, illuminated with spotlights that are still pale in the early evening sun.

“Looks nice.”

It’s not your typical Mexican restaurant with bright colors and a fiesta vibe—instead it’s classy and elegant.

Inside, I’m further surprised. The interior of the bar and restaurant matches the exterior, with white walls, dark wood, black leather furniture, and funky chrome light fixtures suspended above tables. A fire flickers in a big stone fireplace against one wall, and the bar lines another wall, glittering with bottles and glasses. Wood Venetian blinds on the windows keep the atmosphere secluded from the lowering sun outside.

Nearly every table is occupied and a sign at one end of the bar welcomes people to the tequila tasting event. We make our way there and are greeted by a gorgeous Latino man. “Hello.” His smile beams white in his olive-toned face. Short stubble darkens his jaw and his brown eyes gleam. “I’m Marco. Welcome to Conquistadors. Did you ladies buy tickets ahead of time?”

“Yes, we did.” Carrie hands over her computer-printed tickets.

Marco checks them against a list and hands them back. “Excellent. We’ll be getting started soon. Have a seat at the bar.” He gestures.

We climb onto black leather stools and study the myriad of bottles on the wall behind the bar. “He was totally checking you out,” I tell Carrie.

Carrie smirked. “Yeah.”

I have to laugh. Carrie has to be the most down to earth model in the world.

“He’s good-looking,” Carrie adds. “But douchy.”

“What? Why would you say that?”

“I don’t know.” She shrugs and picks up the paper sitting in front of each stool. “Just an impression.”

I lift my paper too and study it. It outlines the various tequilas we’ll be tasting this evening. I don’t recognize any of them. Not that I’m very familiar with tequila.

More people arrive and check in for the event, joining us at the bar. A man slides onto the stool next to Carrie. “Hi,” he says. “I’m Brian. This is my buddy Will.”

Carrie introduces us, and I lean forward to smile at the two guys. Of course they introduce themselves to Carrie. Guys are always hitting on Carrie.

A woman behind the bar approaches us with a friendly smile and sets a basket of chips and a bowl of salsa in front of us, then another in front of Brian and Will.

At the far end of the bar, another man is busy lining up bottles and glasses on a big tray, talking to a group of women gathered there. I glance his way as I help myself to a chip, then do a double take. “Holy shit.”

“What?” Carrie plucks a chip from the basket.

“That guy . . . the bartender down there. He’s the one who grabbed me when I ran into that sign the other day. Oh right. I didn’t tell you about that.”

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