Analyse
Sad salad. Tomatoes are mushy. 0/10 don’t recommend.
Mateo
Damn. Tragic.
Analyse
Tell me about it.
Mateo
Hang tight.
Analyse
??
Mateo
Just don’t move.
I frown at my phone, certain he’s just messing with me. I poke half-heartedly at the salad again, already dreading another bite, when my phone pings once more.
Mateo
Come outside.
I blink. I look around the empty lounge. Confused. I type back quickly.
Analyse
Why?
Three dots appear, disappear.Reappear.
Mateo
Because if you don’t then this pollo guisado is going to get cold.
I stare at my screen. He did not. He wouldn’t actually?—
Pollo guisado. My stomach rumbles at the thought.
I chew the inside of my cheek and glance toward the door. I shouldn’t go. I have a million things to do that he’ll be a total distraction from. But damn it, I’m starving.
I grab my badge and toss the salad into the trash. Fine. Just a few minutes. For the food. Can’t let the food go cold. That would be a travesty.
I push the door open and step into the late afternoon sun, already spotting him across the lot—leaning against his truck. He’s got a brown paper bag in one hand, and two cold drinks balanced on the hood.
As soon as he sees me, he grins. My stomach flips. I tell myself it’s the hunger.
“Hey, chula,” he says with a cocky grin.
I roll my eyes. I hate that stupid grin. Not really. But really.
“Weren’t you ever taught to call before showing up places growing up?” I say, crossing my arms as I stop in front of him.
