Dominico took us to a small bar not far from the restaurant. I felt super self-conscious about my work clothes and stench until we walked in and past a table of dusty construction workers. Apparently this was the watering hole for working-class locals. We sat in a tucked away corner booth and I sipped on a piña colada while he drank a beer.
“Tell me something about yourself,” he said.
“Like what?” I asked.
“What’s your family like?”
“Not much to tell. It’s just me and Papa. He works at the paper mill. I cook. Our lives are positively riveting.”
He chuckled. “What do you do for fun?”
Fun? Who had time for fun? “Read. Watch T.V. Accept rides from strangers.”
Dominico nodded, pounded out a cigarette, put it up to his lips, and lit it. “Can I ask how your mom died?”
Talk about a mood killer. Disappointed that he’d steer the conversation in that direction, I looked away and replied, “Lung cancer.”
“Shit. Sorry. Did she smoke?”
“Not once. She worked in a restaurant. The doctors said secondhand smoke did her in.”
Dominico swore again and snuffed out his cigarette. “Sorry.”
Everyone said they were sorry when they heard about my mom, but the unexpected sincerity in his voice warmed me. “It’s okay.” I eyed the pack of cigarettes. “It’s not a big deal for most people. For me, it… it’s complicated.”
He nodded. “I get it. So, she worked in a restaurant? Was she a cook like you?”
“No. Mom got pregnant with me right out of high school. She and Papa eloped, moved out here from the east coast, and she took the first job she was offered and stayed there until she died.”
Dominico watched me. “She worked… did what she had to do. No shame in that.”
“Yeah, and she was happy.Wewere happy. Papa hated it, though. He wanted her to go to school and do something more with her life. I think he always felt guilt about… well, me.” I shook my head, annoyed with myself for sharing so much. “Sorry. I’m not good at small talk. I know it’s supposed to be surface information, but I like it when it goes deep.”
My mouth snapped shut as I realized all the inappropriate ways that could be taken. What was it about this guy that made me blurt out inappropriate crap? My cheeks felt like they were about to burst into flames. “The conversation, that is,” I hurried to say.
Dominico laughed. I’d been fidgeting with a napkin and he trapped my hands in his, sprouting goosebumps up my arms.
“I want you to feel comfortable telling me anything. Everything,” he said. “We can go deep any time you want.”
His voice was husky and his tone was suggestive. Something hungry and exciting lurked within his dark eyes, inviting me to come out and play. And I wanted to. It was a serious struggle not to crawl across the table and straddle him right there in the restaurant. What the hell was wrong with me? Looking away, I fought for control of my misbehaving libido.
“I want to get to know you, Annetta. How does your father feel about you working in the restaurant?”
I tugged my hands out from under his, instantly missing the contact. I needed something else to keep them busy, so I pulled my drink closer and played with the straw. “We’re still arguing about it. He wants me to go back to school, but it’s so dang expensive and we already owe enough. Besides, I enjoy being in the kitchen. Mom taught me how to cook and when I’m doing it, I feel like she’s not really gone, you know? Like part of her still lives through what she taught me.”
He nodded. “I get it.”
Still, I felt lame. “Why am I doing all the talking? What about you? What’s your family like?”
His pager went off. He excused himself and used the bar phone while I fished fruit out of my drink, hoping he wouldn’t catch me dripping alcohol all over the table, but unable to resist the rum-soaked pineapple.
When Dominico returned, he seemed upset and distracted. “Work calls. Come on, I need to get you home.” He tugged a few bills out of his wallet and dropped them on the table before leading me out the back door.
Once we were in the car, he thanked me for coming out with him and claimed he had a good time.
I did too, even though our night had been cut short. “You must not get out much,” I replied. “I did nothing but talk about myself, and I’m pretty boring.”
“Not at all. I work a lot and the people I usually hang out with are… different. Trust me, this was nice.” He pulled out of the parking lot and then grabbed my hand. Warmth crept up my arm.
