Forbidden Fruit (Shannon Cheney) - By Ann Aguirre Page 0,6
one of those tiny neighborhood joints that you’d be afraid to try if you didn’t already know the food was delicious. I can surmise why he’s chosen such a venue; I’m supposed to be a good girl if there are children running around and not allude to the fact that I want to end the night on top of him.
We’ll see.
He tells me about his day as he drives. Apparently it’s not always thrilling to be a cop, and I hear about the extensive interviewing he did. His partner died a while back, and they just assigned him a new one. Her name is Stella, and Jesse likes her. He’s also grateful that she’s ten years older than he is and happily married. This carries us all the way to the small, adobe restaurant with hand-painted lettering on the front that reads TITO’S. There are lots of cars parked on the street too, always a good sign.
Deliberately, I sit in the car until he comes around and opens my door. He may not want to think of this as a date, but it definitely qualifies in my mind. I hop down and take two steps toward Tito’s. People are sitting out front, eating tacos from Styrofoam trays. Rising up on tiptoes, I can see there are no tables open indoors, but there are picnic tables out here. This is the opposite of romantic, exactly what he was going for.
“It smells great,” I tell him.
He was expecting me to object, but they’ve got proper pork roasting on a spit behind the counter, which means these tacos will taste right. There’s nothing like tacos al pastor, loaded up with cilantro, green sauce, chopped onion, and fresh pineapple. I pull up short, frowning. Why do I know that? For a few seconds, there was a voice in my head, making me think I’m an expert on Mexican food.
“Have I ever been to Mexico?” I ask Jesse.
It’s a stupid question…because how the hell would he know? He’s frowning, though, and he puts a hand to his head, like thinking about it hurts.
“Maybe,” he finally offers.
“Are you all right?”
“Just hungry, I think. I skipped lunch.”
“Then go get some food. I’ll grab a table.”
“Right away.” He pretends to be irked that I’m coming across bossy, but I see the smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
You can’t fool me, Jesse Saldana. You think I’m pretty.
It doesn’t take long for him to come back with drinks in paper cups and two trays piled with tacos of varying types. But they’re all made right, none of that crunchy shell nonsense, stuffed full of ground beef. Damn. I have no idea where this attitude came from, but I’m apparently awash in scorn for Mexican fast food.
“This is great,” I say, digging in.
“Most women don’t like it. No ambiance.” He stills, seeming to realize what he’s implying there.
Too late. You said it. You can’t unsay it.
“I’m not exactly the poster girl for normal.”
“Normal’s overrated.”
“You saying you like what I’ve got to offer?” I smile at him, holding his gaze for several heartbeats.
“Shannon, stop.”
I widen my eyes. “What?”
“Flirting.”
“Flirting never hurt anyone. You’re a big, strong man. You can take it.”
He swallows. “Seriously. Quit trying to make me want things I can’t have.”
“But…I’m pretty sure you can.” I make a show of checking my phone for prior engagements. “Yep. I can pencil you in. But it’d be better if we go to your place. Maria might eavesdrop on our moaning and banging around. Do you break things during sex? I always wanted to knock over a lamp.”
“You’re incorrigible.”
“So corrige me, all night long. I’m positive I could be reformed by hands-on attention.”
“Eat your dinner,” he says in a suffocated voice.
“Will I get candy after? Just so you know, I’m not getting in your panel van.”
He swears softly. “I’d think you were screwing with me, if not for—”
“The way I feel to you?” I whisper.
“Yeah.”
I swear, you could scoop up the atmosphere with a spoon. He’s still, but I notice him breathing faster. This is dirty pool, but I’m not trying to suppress how much I want him. I spackle it with levity, but this longing is a tidal wave. I can’t get enough oxygen. There are people all around us, but I have the crazy feeling we’re inside a bubble; the world recedes like a hitchhiker in the rearview mirror.
“I’m not going to lie,” I tell him. “Or pretend. It’s up to you how to respond.”
He clenches a hand on the