Page 29 of Love at First Ink

“I didn’t,” he agreed. “But the thing is, I’m trying to impress this beautiful woman’s cat so she’ll like me.”

The faintest of smiles played on Marisol’s lips. He watched her hesitate, freezing in place before making her mind up and leaning toward him. She pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek. “Thank you. Snowball appreciates it.”

It was a swift kiss, a ghost of a kiss. Yet her lips seared his skin, implanting themselves on him. He felt like a damn peacock, standing up a little straighter and puffing out his chest to attract the females.

“Just Snowball?” He smirked.

Marisol winked at him, just as the teenager said, “Thank you, sir. Have a good day,” and handed him back his card.

Figuring out how to fit everything in his car was a game of Tetris where he stacked cat items precariously upon one another, hoping they didn’t get too jostled around on the drive to lunch. By the time he was finished packing the car and putting away the cart, because he wasn’t an asshole who left carts in random places in the parking lot, he was particularly ravenous.

“How do you feel about pizza?” Cisco asked once he slid into the driver’s seat.

“People who don’t like pizza are psychopaths or aliens. Probably both,” Marisol said, deadpan. She shimmied in her seat until she was facing him. “Actually, I was thinking we could get our food to go? Eat at my house while we—well, you—put together Snowball’s things? I just really want to get Snowball home and adjusted.”

He would be lying if he said he wasn’t curious about what Marisol’s house looked like. What she came home to every night. It seemed like an intimate look into her soul, and he was a desperate, greedy man who needed to know everything he could about her.

“Sounds good to me. I know the perfect place.”

Mario’s Pizzeria was burstingat the seams when Cisco opened the door for Marisol. The hostess looked frazzled as she attempted to find tables for abnormally large parties. Despite it being just the two of them, plus Snowball, the woman looked at them as if she had just seen the Grim Reaper coming to collect her soul.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, we don’t allow cats in the restaurant,” she said, body tensing as if waiting for impact.

“We are headed to the take-out counter. We won’t be long,” Cisco said, and the hostess visibly relaxed.

“Oh, of course. Just around the corner. Enjoy the rest of your day.” She smiled before quickly greeting another large party wanting a table.

Cisco worked as a waiter during college, and he knew how grueling it could be. He grabbed a twenty from his pocket and slid it over to the hostess, who looked like she was about to cry at the gesture. “Thank you so much,” shemouthed before taking a family back to their table.

“That was kind of you. She looked stressed,” Marisol said, frowning.

“Working with the public is stressful.” Cisco placed a hand on her back and led her toward the take-out counter. “Do you have a favorite pizza?”

“I usually just get pizza with veggies. But I’m open to maybe trying something different,” she said.

“Then I’ll surprise you.” Cisco gently squeezed her hand and headed over to the counter. The man working there, in contrast to the hostess, looked calm and at ease. Granted, Cisco was the only one there, so he imagined being calm would be easy under those circumstances.

Cisco scanned the menu before spotting the roasted tomato sauce pizza with garlic, sausage, spinach, and chunks of mozzarella. He added on buttery garlic sticks because no pizza lunch was complete without them.

Just as he took out his card to pay, he heard a masculine voice behind him ask, “Marisol? What are you doing here?”

Cisco’s head swiveled to the side to see a man around his age. He gave off a posh vibe and held himself like any white man with an exorbitant amount of privilege. He was dressed in designer slacks with a button-up shirt, rolled up around the arms. Cisco wondered if it was this man’s version of casualwear. His golden-brown hair was styled so not one hair was out of place, making him look like an extra at a frat party.

He turned just in time to see the expression on Marisol’s face drop and all color drain from her face. It was as if she was staring at a ghost—an evil, vile ghost. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end as he tensed. He closed the space between himself and Marisol, framing his body to conceal hers.

“What’s wrong?” he questioned. Notare you okay? Because he knew she wasn’t.

“Marisol, who is this man?” the annoying, agitating voice answered from behind them before Marisol could speak.

He looked over his shoulder just in time to see the disgusted look in the stranger’s eyes as he took Cisco in. Black jeans. Black shirt. Tattoos covering every available space on his body except his face. He knew what people saw when they looked at him, and it was never anything good. They thought him a low-life thug who wanted to start trouble.

“Who are you?” This time the question was directed toward him. The man’s blue eyes traveled over his body, sizing him up before meeting Cisco’s glare. The man stood straighter, narrowing his eyes to appear tough, but Cisco saw the undercurrent of fear in his expression.

“Archie, not here. Go away,” Marisol said, a tremble in her voice. He had never heard her sound so small or unsure before. Was that fear? Anger? Something else? His temper flared. He didn’t know this man—Archie—but he didn’t like him.

“Not here?” The man laughed humorlessly. “Then where, pray tell, should we have this discussion? Color me surprised when I’m having lunch with friends, only to find my wife with another man.”

His body went rigid. The happy sounds from the restaurant's patrons all faded away until he heard nothing but the ringing in his ears.

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