“You drunk-dialed Jace?”
Cristina slaps a hand over her forehead. “What’s wrong with me?”
She hunches down like she’s going to cry again, and Rowe wraps her best friend in a hug. “Come outside. Let’s talk.”
Rowe shoots me a look that says everything—she needs to be with her bestie. I nod, silently telling her to go on, that I’ll wait for the food.
Gloria appears with our order a few minutes later. I pay with the little cash that I have and frown. I’ve got to find a way to put money in my pocket. Maybe I’ll take Isaac up on that poker game after all.
The restaurant owner hands me the bag of empanadas. “Miss Rowe is a good one. You two seem cute together.”
“Oh, we’re ...” I start to gesture toward the front door Rowe disappeared through, but drop my hand. “Sheisa good one, isn’t she?”
“Enjoy your empanadas, my darling. We’ll see you soon.”
I take the bag, wondering why I didn’t correct Gloria about Rowe and me being a thing.
Maybe because my head was still spinning from Rowe questioning whether or not I’m likable. What did I even mean when I said that by the time this is over, she’ll like me?
In bed. She’ll like me in bed.
Stop.Don’t make this complicated. Rowe and I have to get along for the next two months if her farm is to succeed.
Which means she’ll have to like me. Hey, I’m likable when I want to be.
Not if you ask her, though. The way Rowe talks, I’m a horrible grouch.
Perhaps that’s because I am.
But deep down, I’m likable. At least, Icanbe. And I plan to prove it.
That’s it. By the time I’m out of Mystic Meadows—in two months—Rowe Wadley will like me.
Notlike me, like me. But like me.
Or maybe I’ll wind up liking her.
Outside, Rowe and Cristina are sitting on the curb with their heads together. When I walk up, Rowe rises. “Can we drive her home? Are you sober?”
“I haven’t had a drink in a while.”
“So youcandrive us?”
“Sure.”
“Wait.” Cristina lifts a bag. “It’s a Cuban sandwich for Isaac. Can you give it to him?”
“Absolutely.” I hand Rowe the keys to the truck and walk back to the bar. Inside, Isaac is washing glasses. “This is from Cristina.”
“Ah, my Cuban. I was beginning to think she’d forgotten.”
“Nope.”
“Thanks, man.” He points at me. “Don’t forget, this Wednesday. I expect you to show up.”
“I’ll be here.”
As I’m heading out, Ron stops me. “See you tomorrow, Pane.”
