“Yep.”
“You’re close to them?”
“Val and his wife, Eva, are like family to Sophia and me. They have been since we lost our mother fifteen years ago. My father was already gone by then, too, so we didn’t have anyone else.”
He would still have been in his teens, and Sophia was just a child when they found themselves parentless. “I’m so sorry, Chaz.”
“Me too. These tattoos are for them,” he says, showing me the side of his wrist inked with two doves.
I raise my gaze back to his eyes, seeing the grief there as he sits with it for a moment. I want to offer comfort, but his affable mood quickly returns.
He uncorks the wine and takes out two stemless goblets, filling each partway. “To more surprises,” he proposes, clinking his glass against mine.
“How many more are there?”
“We’ve only just started.” Chaz unveils a wooden charcuterie board featuring an assortment of cheeses, cured meats, grapes, olives, crackers, and bread. “Any allergies?” he inquires, unwrapping the plastic covering.
“None,” I say as he retrieves more from the bag—napkins, a couple of butter knives, and a Tupperware dish—and adds themto the board. I resist the urge to arrange everything in an orderly fashion.
“This is crab pâté à la Delgado.” He spreads the contents on a stone wheat cracker and brings it to my mouth.
I hesitate before taking a bite, my lips touching his skin. Warmth crawls up my face. “Sorry,” I mumble around my hand.
“Don’t be.” He pops the rest into his mouth. “How is it?”
I manage to swallow without incident. The delicate crab is slightly sweet with subtle hints of lemon and dill. “So good.”
“The menu has much improved since the last time I was here on a date.”
I want to remind him this isn’t a date, but that might seem like I’m protesting too much. “When was that?”
“The summer after my sophomore year of high school. Back then, it was Selena Rodrigues, a bottle of Pepsi, and cheese sandwiches.”
“Romantic,” I say, smiling into my wine. “Whatever happened to Selena?”
“I got thrown over for a quarterback with excellent pocket management.”
“I don’t know what that is, but it sounds like Selena made a poor choice.”
“She did. The quarterback cheated on her with a cheerleader.”
“How cliché. I hope that’s not why you stopped bringing dates here.”
“Nope. Once I got my driver’s license, I realized making out in my backseat was far superior.”
I laugh, growing more relaxed in his company. “Tell me about your music,” I ask, curious about him. “How did you get started?”
“My dad. He bought me my first guitar when I was five and taught me how to play ‘Samba Pa Ti.’” He sings a few bars inSpanish, his voice melting over me like butter. “Carlos Santana was his idol—both of them were wicked guitarists from Tijuana.”
“Is that why some of your music has a Latin influence?” I add prosciutto, Havarti, and fig spread to a couple of round pieces of bread. I hand one to him.
“It shaped me early on,” he says, polishing it off in two bites. “My dad and I would jam together. Those are some of my favorite memories.”
“How long has he been gone?”
The smile in his eyes fades. “Twenty-two years. I was twelve. My mom was pregnant with Soph.”
“That must have been really hard.”
