Page 20 of Is This for Real?
“Yes, like no kissing.” I stare straight ahead. The couple holding hands ahead of us turns into a French restaurant, opening the blue, wooden door and disappearing quickly inside. Glowing globes of warm, white light hang from the ceiling, visible through its glass storefront. Almost every fake dating romance sets a “no kissing” rule.
“No kissing, huh?” he asks.
I sneak a glance at him. Just a quick one. I can’t tell from his voice if he is upset. And he angles his head to look at me at just that moment. Our glances collide. A jolt of anticipation courses through me.
His gaze is intense. “So, I shouldn’t have kissed you on the cheek yesterday?”
That wasn’t just a kiss on the cheek.You lingered, nuzzled my neck.I look away. Heat steeps my cheeks. Thankfully, the light is dim on the street. I straighten my shoulders. Clear my mind of that buzzing, intoxicating feeling. “No, that was okay. No kissing on the lips.” Keep walking. The blinking, neon light of Diego’s TexMex Café beckons.
“Only okay?”
I stop and turn to him under the streetlight. His hair is tousled. His thumb strokes my palm. I swallow. My stomach flip-flops.I’m in control.“No, that was . . .” I pause.Let him suffer.“Sensual, intoxicating, overwhelming.”
He blushes faintly. “Is this from your word-intensity exercise?”
“Yes.” I walk again, pulling Rory along by the hand. “So, I’m not sure I can take the real thing.”
Rory snorts. “I can understand that. But we can hold hands, right?”
“Yes. Hugging, holding hands, affectionate touches . . . I think we need all that.” I can take that, I hope. I’m all for finding out if Rory is interested, but if we kiss, I’m afraid I’d be the only one revealing I want more. I stop. “Are you okay with that?”
“Yes.”
He doesn’t even pause to think about it. He must be sure that he won’t be affected.
I glance at him. “You won’t get carried away if I caress your cheek with my fingers?”
Rory’s jaw tightens. “Getting hotter.”
The Tex-Mex restaurant has a yellow front and an orange awning. A cactus is painted on the door. We push open the door, joining the line to talk to the guy behind the counter. He’s seating people while also answering the phone and packing up take-out orders. Mariachi music is playing. The walls are this bright and happy orange, yellow, and green, with an orange, stone floor. It smells delicious—cilantro, lime, cumin, and garlic.
I smile at Rory. “I like the vibe.”
“Anthony believed we were dating.”
“He believed we were on a date.”
“The difference?”
“Candles and flowers,” I say wryly. “That can stop when you’re dating.” A delivery guy in a bright-orange reflective vest, his bicycle helmet still on, squeezes by us to pick up the next delivery order.
“Candles and flowers are not just for dating. My dad still buys my mom flowers every Friday,” Rory says.
The counter guy tapes the receipt to the brown bag, hands it to the delivery courier, and says, “Thirty-minute wait. Should I put your name down? Or would you be interested in our couples cooking class? It starts right now, and we have a spot available for one more couple. You’ll make puffy tacos from scratch, shredded chicken, and the sides—queso, guac . . .”
“That sounds fun,” I say.
“Normally, I’d be all for it, but I’m not sure I should be let back in a kitchen.” Rory dips his head.
“It’s discounted because of a cancellation,” the counter guy says, putting the next call on hold.
I tut. “Back on the horse, as they say. I mean, c’mon, puffy tacos from scratch. Let’s do it.”
Rory nods and pays for us. He puts his hand on the small of my back. We are ushered through the busy kitchen to a partitioned section off to the side where we won’t interrupt the kitchen staff. Three other couples are working around a long table, in silence or whispered conversation, each with an electric burner and cutting station with several bowls lined up in front of cutting boards.
We hang up our coats on a coat rack while the hostess offers us white aprons and chef hats or hair nets. It’s a hard choice when both are incredibly sexy. I reluctantly remove my cloche hat and replace it with an oversize chef’s hat. The apron completes my transformation. So much for my seductive outfit.
We take our spot. Another chef comes over and explains what to do. First, we’re making the shredded chicken. While that cooks, we’ll make the toppings and the tacos. It feels very serious.
