“Saying whatever’s on your mind. Fly by the seat of your pants … I don’t know … like this?” she finishes, gesturing toward my body with her hands.
I shrug. “My nickname in the military was Chaos.”
“Seriously?” There’s a grin on her face. “I should’ve figured. Wait …” She pauses as our breakfast is brought out and placed in front of us.
We remain seated on the bar’s stool, our bodies turned toward one another instead of facing the bar directly.
“Let me know if you need anything,” our waitress says before departing.
“You were in the military?”
I nod.
“For how long?”
“Eight years.”
“What branch?”
“Army.”
“And then you became a firefighter?”
“Right.”
“It … suits you.”
“How so?” I inquire, suddenly interested in hearing her take on me, as I take a bite of my burrito. I don’t miss how her eyes fall to my lips as I chew. I swallow and learn forward. “I really wouldn’t do that if I were you,” I growl.
“Do what?”
“Look at me like you’re prepared for me to bend you over this fucking bar.”
“Oh my god!” she screeches.
“Those are the exact words you’d be screaming.”
“Emanuel!” Her voice is scolding and her cheeks inflamed.
I shrug. “I’m just warning you.”
“Finish your breakfast.”
I chuckle but do take another bite of my burrito.
Breakfast finishes without much fanfare, and before we know it, we’re interrupted by a spry, older Mexican man dressed in a white-collared, short-sleeved shirt and khaki shorts.
“Listo, Sr. Allende?” He turns to me, smiling, holding up his clasped hands as if he can’t contain his own excitement.
“I am, Sr. Gonzalez.” I look to Nadine making sure she’s finished her breakfast.
Her eyes are curious her gaze bounces between myself and the new man that’s just entered. “So …?” she drags out the question.
My smile widens. “We’re going parasailing.”
And just as I knew they would, her eyes enlarge, nearly bugging out of her head. Her head immediately begins shaking from side to side. I don’t pay that any mind, stepping beside her and practically lifting her off the barstool, pushing her toward the door. We follow behind Sr. Gonzalez.
“Emanuel, I cannot go parasailing!” she insists even as we continue down the concrete walkway to where Sr. Gonzalez has parked his small, four door vehicle.
