Page 13 of White Wedding
Maybe because he was chilling with his girlfriend. Unlike Victoria, he was probably getting laid tonight.
A flash of memory coursed through her as she recalled straddling him in bed, looking down at his firm, muscular body as they made love in her suite. When she’d been with him, all her inhibitions had flown out the window.
Don’t even go there.
She cleared the image from her mind. “Sorry to interrupt your night, but I wanted to tell you Ben and Missy are going with Tres Hermanos.” When he didn’t respond, she plowed on ahead. “Are you okay with that? I know it’s not ideal, but it’ll be great publicity for your business.”
“It’s fine.”
She let out a breath. “Okay. Cool. Super. We should meet. Soon. At the estate. You’ll need to get the lay of the land, that sort of thing.”
Dear God, why had she used the wordlay?
“Would Monday morning be all right?” he asked. “The restaurant’s slammed on Sunday, but we’re closed on Monday, so I have the day free.”
“Perfect. How about at ten? Why don’t you meet me in the Blackwood Manor boardroom? Once you sign the paperwork, we’ll go from there.”
“Sounds good. See you on Monday.”
That was it. Done. It wasn’t as hard as she’d expected.
Even so, she definitely needed a glass of wine.
Or two.
* * *
Rafael set down the phone.“I’m in. Monday morning at the Blackwood Cellars Estate.” He didn’t know whether to feel excited or apprehensive, given what he’d be dealing with. A rich, demanding couple. A huge society wedding. And the woman who’d broken his heart.
“You don’t sound too thrilled about it,” Araceli said. “Come on—think how pumped Martin’s going to be.”
“True. It’s a huge coup for Tres Hermanos.” He allowed himself a small smile. Even if he couldn’t undo the mistakes he’d made in the past, this job would prove he could handle a serious,importantgig.
“Can I come with you to the meeting?” Araceli asked. “Please? Since I’ll be serving at the wedding?”
He laughed. “Don’t you have to be at work on Monday morning?”
She blew out a huffy breath. “Right. Work. How boring. But you’re bringing me on the job. I hope the tips are awesome.”
By now, his dish was almost done, and the aroma of sizzling pork and onions made his stomach growl. “Want to stay and help me eat this?”
“Yes, please. All I had for dinner was half a leftover wrap from the lunch cart. And a bowl of ice cream. But the carton had freezer burn, so the ice cream wasn’t the best. Not that butter pecan is all that exciting to begin with.”
He tuned her out as he retrieved a container of homemade chipotle sauce from the fridge. She got out the plates, cutlery, and napkins and set them on the round wooden table where everyone ate when they were together.
“Beer or water?” she asked.
“Just water for me.” Another beer might lead to another and then another after that. He’d been down that road too many times in the past.
She filled a pitcher with ice water and snagged a couple of glasses. He placed the pan with the pork and onions on a trivet, next to the bowls holding the chopped cilantro and the chipotle sauce. As he surveyed the table, he realized what was missing—the Middle Eastern garlic-yogurt sauce he’d made the night before to accompany the dish. He grabbed it out of the fridge and set it next to the cilantro.
Araceli grabbed the tortilla warmer from the counter. “Flour or corn?”
“Neither.” He passed her a bag of pita bread. “You can heat up a couple of these in the microwave.”
“Pita bread? Really?”
“Trust me. You’re supposed to serve them like shawarma.”
