Page 1 of Who I Really Am

CHAPTER 1

Annalise

From rock bottom, there is nowhere to go but up.

That is whattheysay, and I am now in a place to test the theory.

Jake’s Bar and Grill is mostly empty. It’s the off-season and a Monday night, at that. Nonetheless, wouldn’t you know, although only one individual is seated at the bar, it’s a built guy with dark hair and he’s occupying the stool inches from the link of counter where all takeout orders are paid for and picked up.

Great. I’m generally quite a social person, but tonight I don’t want to be messed with. Indeed, the barest pleasantries are too much after the day I’ve had—and most certainly I don’t want to have to tell some puffed-up ego maniac to…ahem…bugoff. But I will if I have to. I’ve done it before.

Honestly, I rarely use the kind of language I’m considering tonight—anymore, that is. When I was thirteen, four-letter words rolled off my tongue as easily ashelloandgoodbye, at least when I was at school or with my friends. It ensured my place in the social circle I had selected. Mom and Dad would have grounded me into the next decade had they heard, but by the time I graduated high school, I had cleaned up my act. I realize now that kind of language doesn’t jive with my core values.

Core values. Ha.

The bacon burger with pepper jack cheese has been my favorite for years, and I’ve had Jake’s on speed dial since the day I passed my driver’s test almost exactly seven years ago. Burgers aside, their stringy, lightly breaded onion rings with special seasoning, dragged through their special sauce, are like crack cocaine. Totally addictive.

Not that I know squat about crack cocaine, or any other drug, for that matter, but this is what my friends have always said about their own culinary vices, their go-to comfort foods in times of distress, so I’ll go with it.

And if ever I’ve had need of comfort, tonight is that night. Those yummy rings and sauce had better bring their A-game.

I barely glance at the man near my destination. Eye contact is an open invitation, I’ve learned. Not that most men need an invitation. Most are nauseatingly confident, and for no apparent reason most of the time.

Still dripping rain from the ugly night, I swing my purse onto the bar and wait for the bartender, a six-foot-plus bag of bones with a dinner plate through his left earlobe. His dawdling is annoying since waiting on me appears to be all he’s got going on this soggy Monday near closing time.

When he arrives, I state my purpose. “I have a takeout order for Lise, please.”

The full version of my first name isn’t exactly difficult, yet, since people have an amazing amount of trouble with it over the phone, I typically use a shortened form for times like this. My brother warns me I should never give out my super easy last name. In fact, his suggestion is a fake name altogether, but that seems paranoid. Besides, it’s on the card I inevitably pay with anyway.

The bartender, in black from head to toe, blinks kind of funny at me, then informs me that my quick stop before heading home is not going to go as planned. “Yeah, uh…” He scratches the back of his scraggly head. “Um, it’s going to be another ten minutes.”

The barely caged anger I’ve been taming since morning stirs. “But I called twenty minutes ago!” I was told fifteen at the outside.

“Sorry,” he says, though it’s obvious he isn’t. “The cook dropped it and had to start over.”

I gape. “Please tell me you’re kidding?”

Despite the fact that I’m in my favorite restaurant in my own hometown, I don’t recognize this guy. Considering the fact that I’ve been away more than home for the last four years, that isn’t surprising. I am, however, a little shocked by his response: a shrug. A single shrug, and then he turns his back on me as if he has a dozen better things to do with his time.

As he saunters away, I roll my eyes, muttering about kids these days, until I realize we’re about the same age and piling on doesn’t make sense.

And yes, yes, I am cranky. I’m wet and I’m cold, though it’s rarely cold in Galveston, and certainly not in September. But somehow the rain has seeped inside me. The worse problem, however, is that I am shaking. Like a leaf. It’s my own fault, but between rage and pain, my emotions have been running too high to accommodate food this entire day, not to mention the ups and downs of the last couple of weeks. So, yes, my blood sugar is low, probably dipped to the point that ten minutes or no, I should eat at least part of my meal before getting behind the wheel and traveling the last few minutes home.

The home, by the way, to which I am returning tail-between-my-legs. At least no one will be there to welcome me. Next week will be soon enough for that pleasure.

I hear myself sigh way too loudly for polite company and drop the lion’s share of my weight to the empty stool at my side.

And that’s when I become fully conscious of the broad-shouldered man inches from my left arm, and worse, the fact that his attention is on me.

Marco

I am not in Galveston for fun, or for the beaches. And most definitely not for the cuisine. I hate seafood.Hate. Come to think on it, that little four-letter word isn’t strong enough. I’ll come up with a better one later, but it’s the reason I’m mere feet from sand and surf yet consuming a prime, black angus burger instead of something from the salty depths. My stomach shudders at the very thought.

I’m a land lover. Grew up landlocked in the New Mexican desert. South of the border cuisine is my jam, and Mama makes the best. I miss my mother’s cooking a lot.

I pick up a bite-sized strip of fried jalapeno, swirl it through some salmon-colored sauce advertised as the restaurant’s signature dip, and give it a try. My eyes close. Wow. Just…wow. My partner—correction, myformerpartner—was right in directing me here. After nearly a decade working together, he knows me well.

Pretty much any way you look at it, he’s the reason I’m cooling my heels in Galveston, but I’ve yet to decide if he deserves thanks or a good beating. He persuaded his parents to allow me to hang at their place on the beach while they cruised the Mediterranean.

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