Pinpoint (Point #4) (10 page)

“My mother would be overjoyed to hear you say that,” Oscar says dryly, though not unkindly. He shuts the door, and I buckle my seat belt.

Eagerness races through me. I wasn’t joking when I said I love surprises.

Oscar maneuvers into the driver’s seat gracefully. He presses a button and the ignition purrs to life. “Have you been to Pilsen?”

“That’s near Bridgeport, right?” Oscar nods. “I drove through once on the way to a site visit with a bride. She didn’t want the venue, and I haven’t been back since.”

Oscar casts a wolfish look my way. “Good. I’m glad to give you your first.”

A delicious, liquid heat unfurls low in my belly. I fight off a tremble of anticipation and trepidation.

“Don’t look so scared, Iris. We’re talking about authentic Mexican food. Unless something else is on your mind . . .” From my view of his profile, I see him lift one dark eyebrow.

A bubble of nervous laughter builds in my chest.

“I—er—um.”
Come on, words! Work with me.

Oscar places one large hand on my knee. I’m thankful for the cotton skirt separating our skin. If I get this hot from his touch, I can’t image what it would feel like if his palm closed around my naked kneecap. He squeezes the joint. “Relax.”

Something in his husky drawl does the trick. My unknowingly tense shoulders go slack, and I press the length of my spine into the chair back. “Officially relaxed,” I joke lightly.

Oscar twists a knob on the armrest separating the two front seats. A moment later, jazz music fills the cabin of the car.

“I love Billie Holiday.”

His lips curve. “Me, too. Beware, for the most part, Mentoring Chicago students aren’t into the classics yet.”

“Thanks for the tip. Next week, I’m instituting a student playlist policy. As long as the songs have no explicit language. Gosh, I can’t believe the way they swear so freely. Is that allowed in the classroom?”

“They’re testing your limits and seeing how far they can push you. It happens every semester with every batch of students, but you’ll get the hang of it. And when you’re lost, fake it until you get back on track,” Oscar advises. I envy his seamless confidence.

“I can’t imagine you faking anything,” I say.

Oscar chuckles a deep throaty noise. “Authenticity is important to me, but when it comes to managing a group of rowdy teenagers, I’ll employ any tactics necessary. All’s fair in love and war.”

I can’t hide my giggle this time. “You do realize you’re comparing warfare to spending a couple hours a week with teenagers.”

The car halts at a red light and Oscar gives turns his head to fully face me. “Need I remind you of last Wednesday? You looked like someone had kicked your puppy and stolen your favorite spatula.”

“Don’t even try to tell me you don’t have a favorite knife.”

“Touché.” He gives me another one of his distractedly sexy grins then moves the car forward when florescent green replaces red. The banter flows easily as he navigates his car south on Lake Shore Drive. As soon as Oscar halts his outrageous flirting, I do unwind and end up feeling comfortable enough to converse with him as I do my sister or Cameron.

Before I realize it, twenty minutes have flown by, and we arrive at our destination. Somehow, Oscar finds a parking spot directly in front of the restaurant—Casita. The façade of the building is brick with large windows showing a busy eatery. Some of the customers are even waiting outside.

“Wait,” Oscar orders when the car is in park. He climbs out of the vehicle, strides around the front end of the car, and moves to open the passenger door. He extends a hand down to help me from the car. Our hands touch and there goes my heart, thumping so wildly in my chest I wonder if he can see the movement through my blouse.

Oscar’s expression is unreadable. He stares at me with such intensity I wonder if I’ve done something to upset him. The indiscernible emotion disappears with one blink. “Prepare yourself. This is the best authentic Mexican in the city.”

Again, his fingertips find the small of my back as we walk to the door of the restaurant. He pulls open the door, allowing me to enter first. He stays close to me, guiding us through the people crowded around the host stand. The moment the host spots Oscar, his harried expression morphs into a thrilled smile.

“Señor Oscar! Welcome.”

Oscar’s hand falls from my back to shake the man’s hand. “Good to see you, Manuel.”

“As always, it’s our pleasure to have you here. That mention you made of us in the
Tribune
has brought a tremendous boost in business.” Then Manuel notices me and, if possible, his grin grows wider. Thankfully, he doesn’t voice his observations. “Your table is ready. Right this way.” Manuel leads us through a maze of tables covered in red tablecloths and aromatic food.

At the table, Oscar shoos Manuel away allowing him to pull out my chair.

“You’re spoiling me, you know,” I say when he is sitting across from me.

“How do you figure?”

“Other men don’t have such perfect manners.” Oscar’s features tighten imperceptibly, and again, I wonder if I stepped on a landmine. “M-manners are falling to the wayside,” I backtrack.

An uncomfortable silence passes for a beat. A server arrives to place a plastic basket of tortilla chips and two bowls of salsa. He pours two glasses of water and then disappears just as quickly as he appeared.

“I’m pleased to hear you say that because I don’t date often,” Oscar says.

My heart jumps into my throat. What does that mean? God, I don’t want to be naïve, but it’s not far of a leap to think that this means something about me made him want to break his non-dating streak.

And then my heart plummets from my chest to the bottom of my stomach as he continues speaking. “Never been one for relationships. Work has me occupied nearly seven days a week. It’s never ending, especially with the Mariquita opening in a few months,” Oscar adds.

All that innocent pride disappears within a matter of seconds. What is Oscar trying to tell me? I feel my brow furrowing in confusion. I open my mouth to ask him, but then shut it immediately.

This is a first date. Take a breath and see where it goes.

Wanting to change the subject, I start rambling. “I don’t know much about your restaurants,” I confess. “But from what I do know, all of your places have Spanish names. Is all of the food of Latin descent?”

“Each location is different. Mariquita is the only one with a heavy Latin influence. It will be a bocadillo shop with affordable sandwiches, and we’re trying out a menu of homemade sodas,” Oscar explains.

Then a waiter appears and greets Oscar in a similarly friendly way as the host did. They speak rapidly in Spanish. I took a few years in high school, but I am mostly unable to follow. I study the plastic-coated menu while they talk, feeling out of place. A few minutes later, Oscar addresses me. “What would you like to drink?”

“Oh, water is fine for me,” I say quickly.

“You may want to reconsider. The Casita house margarita is a force.”

I worry my bottom lip with my teeth. It’s not that I’ve never had a drink in my life, but I don’t want to get loose lips from the alcohol or make a fool of myself by stumbling on shaky limbs. On the other hand, I want to fully experience this date. Nothing says I have to finish the drink if it starts to go to my head. “Okay, I’ll try it,” I acquiesce.

“Good,” Oscar says with approval. The waiter leaves, and again, I have his full attention. I push away the little annoyance at Oscar ignoring me. He seems well acquainted with Casita, so I shouldn’t get too worked up over him semi-ignoring me to talk to the waiter in a language I don’t understand.

“You don’t drink much,” he says.

“Not often,” I agree.

“Why’s that?” he asks bluntly.

“There’s no topic you won’t broach, is there?” The question is asked without bitterness.

“Not really.” Oscar extends one hand on the table and leans back in his seat. “Pretense and game playing aren’t for me. I don’t dance around things. If you don’t want to talk about a particular topic, all you have to do is say so.”

“Reasonable enough,” I murmur. “Aside from my father drilling into my head that only sinners drink alcohol, I’m not too fond of allowing libations to control my actions. Booze just doesn’t appeal to me. My own version of a Pavlovian response, I guess.”

“It’s interesting how the lessons of our parents can dictate our decisions and behaviors into adulthood.”

“I’m old enough to make my own choices and have the capability of thinking critically. Nevertheless, my reactions to alcohol are deeply engrained.” I shrug. “What lessons from your parents are you holding onto?”

“All those cotillion classes my mother forced me to attend as a teenager.”

We both laugh at that and then the waiter arrives with our cocktails. “Are you adventurous?” Oscar asks while the server stands astride the table.

“Sometimes,” I say carefully. Where’s he going with this?

“How about adventurous enough to let me order?”

“Go for it.” I nod.

When the waiter is gone, Oscar lifts his glass in a toast. His eyes lock on mine. A current simmers between us, and the attraction is so powerful my body turns to a block of ice. I am frozen, held captive by his penetrating stare. I would do anything to know what he is thinking. “To trying new things.” His voice, though deceptively soft, smolders.

The ice clinks against the side of my glass when my hand quivers. Despite all of the new hurdles I have crossed since leaving the safe confines of Winter, Illinois, I’ve never felt more out of my league than I do now. Oscar closes the final gap of space between our glasses, tapping the salted rims together.

“Cheers,” he says.

When I repeat the word, it comes out as nearly a whisper. The tangy liquid slides down my throat easily. This is my first experience with tequila. From what I’ve heard, this liquor is extremely potent. I take a small sip and replace the taste with a salsa-covered chip. “Delicious,” I approve instantly.

“What I like about Casita is their penchant for fresh ingredients. Their price point is a touch higher than your typical Tex-Mex place, but the improvement in quality is unmistakable.”

“What made you want to become a chef?” I ask.

Oscar smiles fondly. “My mother is an excellent cook. I am her only child, and she insisted that I learn her recipes. Most of my childhood was spent in the kitchen with her.”

I smile at his memory even though I’m not a part of it. His youth sound idyllic. “How wonderful that you share this pursuit with your mother.”

“It wasn’t always a blessing,” Oscar admits. “As a kid, I wanted to be on the baseball field, and it was a point of contention between Mom and me. Eventually, we worked it out. Needless to say, she is thrilled with my chosen profession.”

“You truly have a gift,” I tell him honestly. “Watching you in the kitchen is like watching a professional athlete at his sport.”

Oscar clears his throat, looking uncomfortable with my genuine praise. I shift awkwardly in my seat when he doesn’t respond, wondering if the waiter will arrive soon.

“Thank you,” he says shortly. “And you? What got you interested in baking?”

“Baking wasn’t pre-destined for me as it was for you. Growing up with a father as a pastor, my mom was called upon many times to bake something for a picnic, or a bake sale, a Christmas pageant, you name it. Mother loathed the kitchen, and somewhere along the way, I took over for her. To me, nothing is better than creating things in the kitchen. The next best thing is watching someone enjoy my creations.”

Oscar looks transfixed by my explanation. “When I first started cooking professionally, I’d occasionally find a few minutes to sneak into the dining room and look and listen for responses to my food. After all these years, I still get a thrill when I watch someone enjoy a meal I made.”

We share a smile, a moment of complete understanding. The boisterous noises surrounding us fade, and all the external stimuli disappear. To me, it’s a moment of synchronicity I never expected to experience with someone else, let alone the first man I ever truly desired. It’s all a little serendipitous, but I can’t help but become seduced by the exchange.

Naturally, the waiter chooses that moment to appear with a tray of steaming, sizzling dishes. He places an array of plates on the table. Flautas. Mole Poblano. Stuffed chiles. All the food overwhelms me, and I’m now glad I didn’t consume half the chip bowl.

“Don’t feel like you need to eat everything. I don’t eat here as often as I’d like and admittedly got a little carried away,” Oscar says. “May I?” He indicates toward my plate, and I nod. Oscar expertly serves me a mixture of food.

“Good?” he asks after I’ve taken a few bites.

“Delicious,” I confirm. “I’d be surprised if the food wasn’t fantastic. I hear you know what works well in the kitchen,” I tease him.

Oscar grins shamelessly. “Not going to deny that.”

We eat in companionable silence, and I continue to sip my margarita. The strong drink makes my shoulders loosen and my smile easier. When I finish eating, I sit back in my seat and sigh with satisfaction.

“Do you have any siblings?” I ask innocently.

All the good humor in Oscar’s expression disappears. His jaw sets and a deep frown causes crease lines to form on his face.

“No,” he says without further explanation.

I wonder if I’m wrong about this date—if it isn’t going well. From my perspective, I’m having the time of my life. Oscar is kind, gentlemanly, witty, and polite. But Oscar is harder to read than I thought. Whereas I wear my emotions plainly, his hide behind, at times, a mysterious countenance.

“I didn’t mean to pry. Just curious.”

The tightness in his jaw releases, and his eyes soften. “My apologies. Family is a prickly topic.”

“Sounds familiar.” I want him to understand that I know how badly family memories can sting, but I also don’t want unpleasant things to drag down our first date. “Violet and I don’t speak to our parents,” I confide. “It’s not something I like to talk about—or even think about, really.”

Oscar nods but doesn’t say anything further. Thankfully, the waiter arrives to ask if we want dessert. “No,” my date say succinctly.