“Trent. Yes, of course. I’ll let him know you’re here, Mr. Rourke. Would you like to wait at the bar?”
I nodded, assuring her I could find the bar on my own.
I walked the perimeter of the dining area and made a beeline to a high table in the corner under a giant sombrero. It was an ideal spot for people-watching.
The restaurant looked to be at half capacity and though every stool at the bar was taken, most of the tables were empty. I checked the time. 8:05. Hmm. Maybe that was normal, I mused, absently perusing the margarita menu. Strawberry, mango, jalapeño—
“What the fuck are you doing here?”
I smiled, suddenly feeling better than I had in weeks. “Hi, Trent. Good to see you too.”
He furrowed his brow and plonked on the chair to my left, shielding my view with his big body. God, he looked good in waiter gear. His black trousers were stained with flour or salt dust, and his white button-down shirt was hopelessly wrinkled. But the rolled-back sleeves exposing his strong forearms was a nice touch.
“Seriously. Did you get lost or somethin’?”
“No, I was driving along Sunset and saw the sign…Casa del Sol.” I widened my hands theatrically.
Trent stared at me, unwavering for a few seconds. “Bullshit. What’d ya want to drink?”
“I’ll just have water, please.”
“Okay. Stay put.”
I set my elbows on the table and studied my surroundings. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been in a family-style Mexican restaurant. My parents had taken my sister and me to places like this when we were kids to celebrate birthdays or good report cards. I remembered eating chips and licking my fingers, surprised that my mom hadn’t chided my table manners. They’d had a habit of letting rules slide for odd occasions and being strict over lame things like how much television we were allowed to watch on Saturday mornings.
I pushed my weird reminiscence aside, thanking Trent when he returned with a pitcher of water, two glasses, and a bowl of chips.
“No salsa?”
“No, Derian is bringing guac. It’s the best thing on the menu,” he commented, pouring the water. “I should warn you, Derian’s an actor. He’s gonna try to be charming or some shit. I’ll get rid of him.”
“Is everyone here an actor?”
“Yes.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah, seriously. I’ve worked with a lot of these people in theater groups or bumped into them on audition lines. If you were going for incognito, this was probably the worst place to turn up unannounced.” Trent sat up when a handsome blond with high cheekbones and a movie-star smile approached the table. “Hey, thanks, man.”
“Sure thing. Mr. Rourke, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Derian Tomlinson.”
I inclined my chin. “It’s nice to meet you too.”
“I’m a big fan—”
“Yeah, yeah. He’s honored.” Trent grabbed the bowl from Derian’s hand and scowled. “Thanks for the guac, Der. Beat it.”
Derian frowned and though my angle was bad, I was pretty sure he flipped Trent off too.
“You seem to make friends everywhere you go,” I joked. “What’s your secret?”
“I keep it real.” He plucked a chip from the basket and pointed it at me. “How ’bout you do the same? Is this about me working for Charlie?”
Oh, that was a good reason.
“Yeah,” I lied. “How’s that going?”
“My bank account is happy, but my self-respect has taken a nose dive.”
“It’s not forever.”
“November first.”
“Maybe sooner. They’re getting married in October.”
Trent chomped the chip he’d been holding and dusted his hands. “They set a date?”
“It’s not official, so it could change, but for now…” I tightened my grip on the glass, adding, “October eighth.”
“No shit. That’s my birthday.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. I’ll be thirty-eight on the eighth. It’s like a golden birthday for my almost middle-aged ass. Or maybe I’m middle-aged already. You never know how long you’ve got, eh?”
I nodded. “I suppose that’s true.”
Silence.
I didn’t know how to fill it, and that wasn’t like me. I usually excelled at the art of conversation. I could talk to anyone about anything, and I had great social reflexes. But I came up blank.
I had no idea what to say next, and the ball was obviously in my court.
Trent observed me thoughtfully with a deceptively lazy air that said “curious but not invested.”
“So…was there something else you wanted, Mr. Rourke?”
“No, no. Like I said, I wanted to make sure everything was going okay.”
“You could have called.”
“I didn’t have your cell number.”
Trent narrowed his eyes. “Your son and your secretary do.”
“Yeah, well…”
“Do you want it?” he intercepted.
“There’s no reason for me to have your number,” I replied logically, curling the right corner of my lips in a smirky half smile.
“Gimme your phone.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me. Give it over.”
I snorted. “Yeah, no. I’m not giving you my phone.”
“C’mon. You can always delete the number,” he said, wiggling his fingers meaningfully.
We engaged in another odd standoff before I gave in. I unlocked my contact information and pulled up a new entry, then slid my cell to him.