had turned out that the music industry wasn’t impressed with my education, being more comfortable functioning on a who-do-you-know basis. And since I hadn’t known anyone, and hadn’t been able to luck my way into a break, I’d ended up working at the bar. And my parents had backed right out of my dream. I hadn’t talked to them in a year, actually, just because they’d been so disappointed in me, and hadn’t been shy about telling me so.
And when I said that, Francisco’s face had gone through a fairly alarming transition. He’d gone from listening to me with calm interest to actually angry, and then right to thoughtful.
Which was, I thought, a kind of weird reaction to hearing that the girl you’d just met didn’t talk to her parents.
“What?” I asked, confused. “Lots of people don’t talk to their parents.”
He gave me a long, considering look, but then shrugged. “Let’s just say I understand what it’s like. Having family that doesn’t… get you.”
“What do you—”
“Finished,” he interrupted, shoving his plate away from him.
And though I could see that he was, in fact, finished with his food, I couldn’t help wondering whether he’d decided on that precise moment just to keep me from asking what he’d meant with that family comment. Because that made two questions he’d either evaded or blocked, now: One about why he was in the US, and one about his family.
I didn’t like conspiracy theories, generally. I thought a stone was a stone, and I thought it was a waste of time to make it anything more than that. But there was something off about this guy. Something I couldn’t quite put my finger on.
Look, bartenders are supposed to know how to ask questions, okay? We’re supposed to flirt with the patrons, get them talking, keep them company. And I was pretty freaking good at it. Over the last year, it had also made me really good at reading people. Listening to what they said—and didn’t say—and figuring out what made them tick. But it wasn’t working with this guy, who managed to evade the important questions but stay so smooth that you hardly noticed.
There was something different there. Something I hadn’t seen before. And it was getting under my skin and making me itch.
“The food,” he said suddenly, “was delicious.”
I grinned. “Well, I can’t take all the credit for that. The truth is, Chicago has some of the most delicious food in the world. People just don’t realize it because New York makes so much noise.”
He tipped his head, lifting his eyebrows in doubt. “But New York cheesecake…”
“Chicago deep-dish pizza,” I countered.
“New York pizza.”
“Chicago barbecue.”
“Clam chowder.”
I cocked my head at that one. “Is that really something New York is famous for?”
He cocked his head back. “I suppose that depends on how much you like clam chowder.”
I shrugged. “Jibarito sandwich.”
Now he looked really confused. “You could just admit that you lost. You don’t have to make things up.”
I gasped in genuine shock. “You’ve never had a jibarito?”
He leaned toward me, all smooth charm and smolder, and shook his head. “I haven’t,” he said huskily. “Is it something I should try?”
I leaned in as well, feeling a tingle through my entire body as I got close enough to feel the heat coming off his own skin. “If you haven’t had a jibarito, then you haven’t lived,” I told him in the same tone.
“Then I guess I’m going to have to get you to take me to experience one.”
I laughed, and before I knew it, I was grabbing his hand and hustling toward the door, my phone in my hand to let my boss know that I wasn’t feeling well and wasn’t going to be able to finish cleaning the bar today.
No, that wasn’t something I did often.
Then again, neither was letting a guy sleep in the bar, then cooking him breakfast, and, as it turned out, agreeing to take him to get jibaritos when I didn’t even know his last name.
But there was something about this particular guy. Something that made me want to break the rules for the first time in my life—and refuse to think about the consequences until later.
Chapter 4
Erika
Of course, we didn’t go get jibaritos immediately. That would have been stupid, when Guy Whose Last Name I Didn’t Yet Know had just had an enormous breakfast of potatoes, eggs, and sausage.
Also, he was still definitely nursing a hangover. And I’d had a jibarito on a hungover stomach. Once. It wasn’t a good experience—which