Page 40 of Sangria

Now I’m the one shaking my head. “Get something real. This isn’t our first date.” Of course, as soon as the words come out of my mouth, I realize that yes, this could be considered a date.

“Okay, how about I get a BLT minus the B, with a cup of soup?”

“Sounds good, and for you Mr. Austin?” the waitress says. I hadn’t heard her approach, but it seems that she was within earshot of Zara’s order. I tell her what I want and hand her the menus.

“Does everyone know you in town?”

I shrug and grimace. “Sort of, I guess. I mean it’s kind of hard not to, ya know?” Zara reaches across the table and fiddles with my fingers until I take her hand in mine. It feels damn good to be connected to her like this. “I’m willing to bet a few people know you too.” As the words tumble out, I fear that she’s going to let go of my hand. She doesn’t. Instead, she leans toward me with her lips somewhat puckered. I’d be a fool to not kiss her, but am also fearful of our surroundings.

The wrong brain takes over, and I find myself locking lips with the gorgeous woman across from me. The kiss is sweet, tender, and slightly erotic as she slips her tongue into my mouth and moans. She pulls back, all too soon for my liking, and has a wicked smile on her face.

“That was evil,” I tell her. “But I enjoyed it.”

“I’ve wanted to kiss you for hours. There’s no one around so I thought now would be a good time.”

I rub my thumb over the top of her knuckle while gazing into her eyes. I’ve never been one to keep eye contact for very long, but staring at Zara is like learning a new song. I can’t get enough, and I want more. Each and every day, I want more.

“You can kiss me anytime, darlin’.” This time I’m the one initiating, and she’s all too eager to meet me in the middle, except now I’m cupping her face and turning my head at such an angle that if anyone is looking, they see mostly my ball cap.

When we part, the smile that is spread across her wet lips is worth all the stares we’re likely getting from the staff. The door chimes, causing me to sit up straight. The group that walks in is young and looks like they should still be in high school. I pull my hat down a bit lower and try to avoid making eye contact.

It doesn’t work because one of the girls is walking toward us. “Sorry,” I mutter to Zara.

“It’s okay. If anyone gets it, I do.”

Maybe that is why we’ve connected so well because she understands this life, even if I don’t understand the magnitude of hers.

The teen girl approaches our table. I smile and prepare myself to answer all her questions, stand to pose for a picture, and give her whatever autographs she wants, as long as it’s done quickly so I can go back to Zara. But she’s not looking at me. She’s focused on Zara.

“You’re Zara Phillips, right?” the teen asks.

My eyes bug out at the mention of her name as Zara’s face goes even paler than she already is. I open my mouth to say something, but words escape me. It wasn’t moments ago that I told her I thought someone would know her, but I honestly never expected this to happen.

“I am,” Zara says softly. I try to decipher if she’s upset or put off like I am, but I can’t tell.

“OH! MY! GOD!” The girl squeals in a high-pitched tone that has my ears bleeding. “I am so in love with you and Van. I mean, you’re like the perfect couple, and I just know this separation is nothing more than a publicity ploy because your new album is coming out. But seriously, why are you in Nash?”

My blood boils at this chick’s onslaught toward Zara, not to mention the bullshit statement about her separation from Van being a publicity stunt. The expression on her face is a mixture of hurt, anger, and disgust. It’s fans like this that make us want to stay home and live the life of hermits.

And Nash? Is that some hipster term that I’m not aware of?

“Hi, it’s nice to meet you,” Zara says as she extends her hand to shake that of the teens. She’s more humble than I would be right now.

“You too, it’s like. . . this is like my dream come true and stuff.”

And stuff? What other stuff could there be?

“Is Van here?” she asks, looking around the bistro. I look too because surely someone is playing a cruel joke on us right now.

“No, sorry,” Zara looks at me and pleads for help. Of course, I’m going to give it to her. I signal for the waitress and hand her twenty.

“Sorry, we’re fixin' to leave.” I reach for Zara’s hand and hold it firmly in mine.

“Wait, you’re not with him, are you? That’s like. . .”

We don’t hear what it’s like because we’re out the door and I’m helping her into my truck. I rush to the other side and get in, and quickly start it.

“I’m sorry,” I tell her, knowing nothing I say right now is going to make things any better.

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