I hold back a grin. She’s so easy to get riled up. I kill the car and hop out, going around to help with her door. She stands in front of me, narrowing her eyes. “You hired a guy named Jerry.”
“It was a mistake.”
We walk slowly toward the food truck. At this time of night on a weekday, it’s pretty slow. We wait behind one person before placing our orders, then step to the side under a young tree with a black grate around the roots.
My hand’s in my pocket, and I watch the woman in the window preparing our food. Raquel puts her hand on the small tree and kicks her brown heel along the side of the grate.
“Do you know any of the people here?” She tilts her head and looks up at me.
“No.”
“I just thought since you were such good friends with the family.” She’s teasing, but my frown is firmly in place.
“That was a long time ago.”
“You could’ve brought me some of your chicken.”
“I gave it to Marley.”
“Oh.” She lifts her chin and looks away, toward the bridge. “He’s really good when it comes to social media marketing. After that… incident, I didn’t know what to think of him.”
“He does a good job.” When he’s sober. I don’t want to think about that right now.
The woman in the truck waves to me, and I step forward, taking our bags and leading Raquel to a nearby picnic table under a lamp. I open them and hand over her chicken breast sandwich with fries and the same for me.
Both pieces are red from the spices, and we dig in pretty quickly. It’s a quarter to ten, and I haven’t eaten since lunch. I’m hungrier than I realized. I’ve taken three bites and my lips are on fire. Across the table, Raquel has torn a few strips from the breast of her sandwich and is neatly putting them in her mouth and wiping her fingers.
I stop and sit back, watching her.
Her eyes meet mine. “What?”
“Are you eating it or dissecting it?”
“I’m not devouring it like it’s my first meal in a week if that’s what you mean.” Her feisty tone is back. I missed it. “Oh, look. You can smile,” she adds, and I realize my face has relaxed into a grin.
“It’s the chicken.”
“Oh, sure.” She tears off another small strip and carefully puts it in her mouth then wipes her fingers on the napkin. “And you expect me to believe you can make it this good?”
“Maybe not this good.” I take another bite, wiping my face with the napkin, and she huffs a laugh.
Our eyes meet, and hers are so beautiful when they sparkle—when she’s happy. The streetlight shining down on us makes her hair gleam gold. It shows the freckles on her cheeks. Everything about her is still so appealing to me.
I remember touching her nose with mine, touching her lips, burying my face in her soft hair. These thoughts must be tamped down. She doesn’t want that, and I’m her boss.
I put the sandwich down on the paper plate in front of me, wiping my hands. “Why did you study languages?”
She shrugs. “They came easy to me. I learned French then Spanish then Italian. It was like a game. They just… clicked in my brain.”
“You’re very smart.”
“I like to read.” She blinks up at me again and smiles.
My hand automatically goes to my pocket for a cigarette, but I stop, shifting in my seat instead. She doesn’t seem to notice.
“And you didn’t want to go to New York or Chicago?”
“I might’ve gone to Chicago.” She leans back, taking a sip of iced sweet tea. “Not New York.”