I’m afraid to ask for clarification, so I’ll just assume she means awesome and buff and move along.
“Are you pouting because I can eat more tacos than you?” It’s killing me, so I have to ask.
She turns and stares like I’m mental. “Are you being serious right now?” Laughs. Laughs and laughs. “Dare I ask, how many you can eat at one time?” She throws a hand up. “Don’t tell me, let me guess—an entire dozen.”
Well shit. “Thanks for taking the wind out of my sails.” I frown, deflated that she nailed it on the first guess.
“You are so ridiculous I don’t even know what to do with you.” Her chuckle is good-humored as she watches the houses turn into city blocks with shops and eateries, and finally—Taco Warehouse, aka heaven on earth.
It’s not easy to find a parking spot—this place is jam-packed every night of the week, and especially on Tuesday—but I manage to find one two blocks away, in a paid spot. It’s twenty-six bucks for a few hours, but worth it.
I fist-pump in the air for the sweet victory.
“Oh jeez.”
Hollis is watching me, but she’s smiling, amused.
Happily, I bound over to her side of the truck, reaching it before she gets the door open. Ever the gentleman, I help her get out, though she needs absolutely zero assistance.
“My lady.” I present her to the concrete sidewalk with a flourish, slamming the door behind her, zip in my step as we approach beans and rice and the delicious smell of corn and flour tortillas. Some people mock this sacred day of the week; I treasure it.
“Hola, Señor Wallace!” The owners are here, and Miguel greets us, his twinkling eyes trained on Hollis. I’ve never brought a woman here, if you don’t count Miranda, so I can see that he’s curious.
I wave and smile, scan the room; there are no tables available that I can see and no real places to sit in the entryway while we wait, but I manage to strong-arm my way in between two families against the wall, so at least we can lean while we wait.
“Sit tight, I’m going to put our names in for a table.”
Hollis nods.
It doesn’t take long to get us on the list, but we have quite a wait. The hostess, Rebecca, offers to create a table for us so we don’t have to stand around, which I politely decline before solemnly making my way back to Hollis.
By the look on my face, she knows the news is grim.
“It’s a 45 minute wait,” I announce when I slouch along the wall next to her. “We. Are. Going. To. Starve.”
Hollis rolls her pretty blue eyes sarcastically, but I like it. “Trace, were they going to bump you up on the waitlist?”
I shrug. Did she not hear me declare our impending starvation? Why is she changing the subject?
“And you wouldn’t let them?”
“No.” I sigh hungrily. “It’s not fair for me—us—to just walk in here and take someone else’s table when they’ve been waiting.” I pause. “Also, how did you know my real name is Trace?”
She shrugs and pretends to inspect her nails. “I might have looked you up.”
“Whatttttttt! Hollis Westbrooke, you did not!” I’ll admit it, I sound like a Southern teenage girl. “You googled me! What did you find?”
God this is great news.
“Would you keep your voice down?” she murmurs.
People are starting to stare, not that I give a shit. A few of them seem to recognize me, but so far, none of them have approached us.
“I googled you after we ran into each other at the stadium, because you looked familiar but I couldn’t remember your name. So I looked you up—it’s not a crime, jeez.”
No, but it means she was curious enough to go searching for my name.
We stand and goof around for a few more minutes before Rebecca comes over. It sure as shit hasn’t been the forty-five we were told we’d be waiting, but I don’t want to cause a scene by insisting we wait longer, so we let her lead us to the far corner.
Chips and salsa are placed on the table almost immediately. Guac, too, and water. I don’t bother picking up the menu, because I always order the same thing, but Hollis has never been here, so she peruses the list of options like a skilled restaurateur.
“What are you having? And please don’t say a chimichanga.”
She laughs. “I’m getting two soft shells and two hard shells, thank you very much.”
“Beef, chicken, or pork?” I ask as I collect her menu.
“Um, beef.”
“Sides? Rice, beans, or both?”
She cocks her head at me. “Rice?”
I nod. “Would you like to add a quesadilla for a dollar?”
“Sure.”
“Anything to drink?”
“Um, this water is fine—wait, what is going on? Do you work here now?”
Now we’re both laughing, laughing until the actual server comes to take our order, and I repeat everything Hollis just told me, plus my order, and soon we’re alone again, laughing.