“Since I was fourteen, but I started playing the violin when I was three.”
“Wow, I didn’t start playing the guitar until I was sixteen. Of course I’ll never be as good as Wickham, no matter how long I practice.” He rubbed the back of his head a little self-consciously, a gesture I had never seen in all the clips of him I’d viewed.
“I’ve met Wickham,” I said, trying to bridge the gap between famous rockstar and community violinist. “He and my cousin Darcy were friends as kids and he used to come around sometimes. I haven’t seen him in years, though, so he probably wouldn’t even remember me.”
“I doubt he’d forget you,” Ernesto said, glancing at me with those dark eyes.
I tried not to grin like a fool at his praise.
“Do you spend a lot of time practicing?” he asked, then grimaced. “Sorry, that’s such a stupid question. You can tell I don’t do this very often.”
My nerves faded away at the sound of his. “I don’t either. And it’s not a stupid question at all. I practice for three to five hours a day, depending on what I’m working on.”
He let out a low whistle. “I only log about an hour a day, more if I’m writing. I know all of our songs so well that it doesn’t take a lot to keep them fresh.”
“Are you working on anything new?” I asked.
He tensed and I immediately regretted the question. I wasn’t some reporter here to cover his music career. “Sorry, scratch that. I didn’t mean to pry.”
“No, you’re fine. I’m the one who's sorry. We have to be so careful about what to reveal and when and to whom that it’s a habit for me to clam up.” He drove past Regency Meadows Park, where the giant tree shone so brightly it cast a merry light on everything around it. “I’m working on a couple of songs but we don’t have a set date on when to release a new album.” He looked like he might say more, but I wanted to get far away from a topic that would make him feel uncomfortable or think I was fishing for information.
“Do you have any siblings?” I asked.
His smile lit up his face. “Four sisters. You?”
“Only child.”
“I can’t imagine that childhood. What was it like?”
I paused, considering. “It was lovely, but there were times when I was lonely and wished for a sibling, if only to help share the burden of expectation.”
“Does your mother expect a lot of you?”
I nodded, but didn’t say more. Ernesto was a good listener, but I wasn’t about to unload a lifetime of baggage on our first… date? Was this a date? Or were we just two people who were grabbing food together because we were singing a duet? I pushed the thought away. It didn’t matter what this was—I was going to savor every minute of it.
He pulled into the parking lot and came around to open my door. A bracing wind hit me when I stepped outside, but once we were within fifty yards of the truck, the air turned warm and balmy. I sighed contentedly.
Ernesto noted my pleasure and gestured to the brightly colored truck. “José enchants the space around his truck to feel like his hometown, El Rosario.”
I inhaled the subtle scent of mango groves and palm trees beneath the more immediate aroma of cumin and citrus. It was refreshing after the pine and gingerbread the whole town seemed to have been doused in since thanksgiving.
We walked up to the ochre food truck where a dark-haired satyr with large hands and a wide smile leaned across the counter to shake hands with Ernesto. “Neto! It’s been too long!”
Ernesto laughed. “José, you forget, I was here last week.”
“Yes, I suppose you were. And who is thisbella señoritayou’ve brought to my truck?”
Someone without the gift of enhanced senses might not have picked up on the slight reddening of Ernesto’s cheeks, but I did.
“This is Anne,” he said.
“Bienvenido, Anne. If you need an event catered, I’m your taco man.”
“Gracias, José.”
We ordered tacos andaguas frescas.
“Oh, and add green chiles for me, please,” I said.
