Craving Perfect (12 page)

Sunday arrived and for once it felt good to have a day off. The last few days crawled despite being crazy busy.

I spent a quiet Sunday morning surfing the internet for a Phoenix blonde weathergirl and wannabe news anchor named Callie Collins. I even checked the KSUN website, the white pages, the yellow pages, Facebook, MySpace, and everything in-between and found nothing, unless Callie Collins was a ten-year old girl soccer player from Sandpoint, Idaho. By the end of the morning, I finally had to accept that the Callie Collins I knew—or was—was simply a figment of my overly active, sleep-deprived, and slightly demented imagination.

Damn it all.

But she felt so real…

It didn’t help that after a couple of hours of unsuccessful research I found myself staring at my reflection in Mom’s old mahogany mirror, wondering what women usually wore to the Scottsdale Food & Wine Festival. I’d never been to one, which had seemed to please Carlos when I agreed to the date.

Was it fancy? Casual? Something in-between? Was I being too anal?

Yes, I chastised myself. A million times yes.

If only Kathryn hadn’t avoided me all week. I would have asked her. She’d know exactly what to wear. Plus, she had the uncanny ability to take the drabbest of my outfits and spruce it up with nothing more than a leather belt, a silk scarf, even a pair of her chandelier earrings. Unfortunately, Kathryn had slipped away this morning while I slept. She left no note, no goodbye, no
have a nice life
, no nothing. It was like I was invisible—or she wished I was.

I pulled my hair back and examined my profile, wondering if I should wear my usual ponytail. But then my nose wrinkled at my reflection. Nothing says boring more than a ponytail. I mean, the date wasn’t at the gym.

Sighing, I let my hair down and reached for a couple of outfits strewn across my bed. I was extremely pleased that a fave pair of faded low-rider jeans that I couldn’t wear last summer suddenly felt a little loose around the hips.

“Better, Grace,” I said to my reflection. “But not great. Hardly Alexandra Summers great. But better.” At least it was still cool enough outside to need a jacket over my favorite white vintage blouse with the long cuffs. A jacket would cover just enough of my middle to make me feel comfortable.

I grabbed a suede jacket from the closet before checking outside my window for Carlos. I was surprised to find him leaning against his truck, waiting.

I lifted the window and was about to yell down to him when I stopped myself.

My breath hitched at the sight of him, and I took a second to bask in his hotness. Dressed in jeans and a jean jacket, his long legs crossed at the ankles, his profile pointed toward the mostly deserted street, he looked delicious, in a brooding, Latino James Dean sort of way.

And I looked like, well,
me
.

My hands flew up to my hair and I felt more inadequate than before. Really, why did Kathryn have to pick today, of all days, to hate me? I moaned with new exasperation.

Then I took a step away from the window and reminded myself that Carlos was just a friend. Why was I getting all hysterical? No sense in going all
Sex in the City
, especially when Carlos had seen me at my worst, lying spread-eagle, sweaty, and passed out. Not a pretty sight. Anything would be an improvement.

Stepping closer to the open window, I sucked back a steadying breath and then yelled, “Be right down, Carlos.” I squinted into the sun.

Carlos raised his head and turned toward my window, but barely. “Take your time,” he yelled back. “I’m a little early.” His square shoulders shrugged apologetically as he tapped his wrist.

I nodded and then closed the window before reaching for a pair of boots underneath the bed. I slipped them on and took one final look in the mirror. Why did a pimple have to pick today to make an appearance on my forehead?

I sighed.

But then I spotted one of Kathryn’s perfume bottles hidden behind Mom’s wooden jewelry box. Quickly, I dabbed some on my wrists and behind my ears and instantly smelled lavender.

“Better.” I inhaled deeply. “Wish me luck,” I told my reflection, still wishing that Kathryn was home. I really needed her. If only she felt the same way about me.

“Wow,” Carlos said as I stepped off the curb into the street. He moved away from his truck when I approached him, his mouth forming the perfect
O
.

Instantly, I felt my face and neck flush as I grew larger in the reflection of his sunglasses. Compliments had a way of doing that to me, even ones that sounded genuine.

“You look…” Carlos seemed to struggle to find the right word. Finally, he settled on “
bonita
” as he reached for the passenger door handle of his black pick-up truck. His hand lingered on the shiny handle a few seconds, studying me, before he finally opened it. I couldn’t remember a guy studying me that long in my entire life. It was a little unnerving. I worried that I had missed a middle button on my blouse or dragged a piece of toilet paper underneath my boot.

“Thanks, Carlos.” I was breathless, and not from crossing the street, as my eyes lowered from his locked gaze. “So do you. Not
bonita
, I mean. But good. Handsome. How do you say that in Spanish?” And so began my rambling.

But Carlos only shrugged as if I was crazy for saying so.

He did look nice, though. In fact,
spicy hot
was more like it. I wished Kathryn could have seen him. If she were home, she would have been gawking out the window. And now she would never know.

My eyes finally rested on his hand as it pulled back the door handle. “What happened to your hand?” His fingers were all bruised—each knuckle a dark ugly purple. The bruises blended against his coppery skin but not completely.

Then my gaze flew up to his face. His sunglasses covered most of it but another purple bruise peeked from below his sunglasses. My chin pulled back. “Carlos? What happened to you? Were you in an accident or something?”

His nostrils flared as his lips twisted their way into a smile. An uncomfortable smile. “No accident.”

“What, then?”

“I kind of got into a fight.”

My hand reached for my neck. “A fight? How do you
kind of
get into a fight?”

“I’m an amateur fighter.” His hands stuffed into the front pockets of his jacket. “Sometimes I fight on Saturday nights.”

“Carlos, you could have cancelled—”

“No—” He stopped me. “I mean, I didn’t want to cancel. I wanted to see you today.”

My eyes widened. “You did?”

He nodded.

“But you should see a doctor…”

He shook his head, stubborn.

Carefully, I lifted both of my hands in front of his face.

He didn’t flinch. He didn’t stop me either.

Very slowly, I slipped off his sunglasses and rested them on the top of his head.

I winced as I surveyed the damage. “Carlos…” I exhaled. “Does it hurt?” A bruise the size of a fist covered his right eyelid all the way up to his eyebrow. A smaller bruise colored his left cheek.

He smiled down at me. “Not too bad, right?”

I cringed. “It looks like it hurts…”

Carlos’s lips sputtered. “Not any more than usual.”

“How often do you do this? Fight, I mean?”

“Not often,” he said quickly.

“How often?”

“Once a month. Maybe.”

“Once a month? That often?”

He nodded.

“Where?”

“A gym downtown. You wouldn’t know it.”

I reached up and touched the bruise on his cheek with my fingertips.

My touch didn’t make him flinch. I took this as a positive sign.

“You need to stop fighting.” The request came out before I had a chance to think about it.

“I plan to.”

“When?”

“As soon as I graduate.”

“Good.” My hand dropped to my side. “Did you at least win?”

A new smile spread across his face, wider than before. His head began to nod. “Oh, yeah.”

“I hope it was worth it.”

“More than you know.”

I smirked. “Good. But I still think it’s crazy.”

“I know.” Carlos slipped the sunglasses over his eyes and then reached around me to open the door. He seemed anxious to leave and with me acting like his mother, who could blame him.

I glanced inside his truck before climbing inside. A baby powder scent lingered in the front seat and the dashboard was as shiny and smooth as water. Freshly waxed. I’d have guessed it was cleaned, top to bottom, as early as this morning. I turned to him. “You should have gone to the emergency room instead of cleaning your truck, you know.”

Carlos chuckled. “No way. It really needed it. Trust me.” He shut the door and then darted around to the other side, amazingly fast for someone who looked as if he’d been hit repeatedly with a baseball bat. As I put on my seatbelt, he asked, “What kind of music do you like?”

“All kinds. But I like jazz the most.”

“Well, you’re in luck. I happen to like jazz too.” He pressed a preset button on his radio.

“Really?” I didn’t figure Carlos for jazz. Heavy metal, maybe even hard rock, but not jazz.

“Really. That and mariachi.” He smiled again as he checked the side mirror before pulling away from the curb. The truck’s engine growled as we accelerated.

“Jazz and mariachi. That’s quite a combo. Very unique.”

“Yeah, well.” He sighed. “That’s the kind of guy I am.”

Carlos and I glanced at each other at exactly the same moment, and I quickly looked away with first date jitters.

Even so, I felt a smile build across my face, and I bit my lower lip to keep it from growing. But there was something about Carlos that made me feel different, even special.

Carlos placed his right hand between us and for a moment I thought he might reach for mine. Oddly, I hoped that he would.

All of this uneasy energy bounced between us before we reached the first stoplight.

“So, now that we’ve covered cars and music, how do you feel about food?”

“I love food,” I said but then wished I hadn’t. It made me sound like a cow. “All kinds, I mean.”

“I wanted to take you to lunch somewhere near the festival. Do you have any preferences?”

“Just as long as I don’t have to make it myself, I’ll try just about anything.”

“Good.” He faced forward again. “Then I know just the place. Prepare to have your world rocked, Grace.”

From the way his smile brightened his mostly bruised face, I wouldn’t bet against him.

It took every ounce of my strength not to reach for Grace’s hand as we drove away from the Desert Java. Delicate and soft, her fingers rested between us, driving me crazy.

When she’d placed them on my cheek and touched my bruise, it was all I could do not to turn into her palm and kiss it. I’d have gladly let that
tonto
Max Kramer punch me in the face a dozen more times if it meant Grace would have brushed her fingertips against each and every bruise.

Her hair bounced around her shoulders, even those little stray blond strands that always curled around her forehead. She looked so smoking hot gorgeous in her boots and jacket when she walked toward me that I wanted to lay her over the hood of my truck right then and there. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t think it. But then I reminded myself,
Slow down. Don’t scare her off before you reach the highway…

Grace wasn’t surprised when I pulled into a Mexican restaurant off Second Street in downtown Scottsdale. “Next to anything Italian and pastries, I love authentic Mexican food. I figured if anyone knew a great place, you would, Carlos.” Her ocean eyes sparkled.

I swallowed and reminded myself not to stare. I was losing it, losing my cool.
Bad.
“I’m glad,” I said with some difficulty, and not because the parking lot was packed with cars and trucks. “Ever been to Mario’s before?”

“Never. Kathryn and I can never get a reservation. But do you think we’ll get a table? Look at all these cars…” Her eyes scanned the crowded unpaved parking lot. A vehicle wedged itself wherever there was a sliver of space.

“It’s no problem,” I said quickly. “Mario is my uncle. I think he’ll squeeze in two more today.”

“You’re related?”

Mario Gonzales was one of the most well-known Mexican chefs in Arizona. “He’s my uncle
and
my godfather,” I said, doing a really pathetic Marlon Brando impression, albeit with a Mexican accent. But it just came out. I couldn’t help myself. Grace had that effect on me. And I was more than a little nervous.

“Lucky for us…There are at least twenty-five people waiting outside the front door just to get their names on the waiting list.”

I didn’t say anything. Instead, I bypassed the parking lot and drove to the rear of the one-story brick building. I put the truck in park, jumped out, and retrieved an orange cone sitting in the middle of the last available parking space next to the rear entrance. I picked up the cone and tossed it into the truck bed where it landed with a definitive
thud.

“This sure beats valet.” Grace’s face turned to watch me, wide-eyed, as I leapt back inside the truck. I liked that she watched me. And it was becoming increasingly difficult not to kiss her.

“You got that right.” I was anxious to be beside her again as I parked the truck. “I hope you’re ready to eat the best Mexican food you’ll ever have in your entire life.”

Grace smiled back at me in a way that made all of the aches in my body disappear. “I am totally ready.”

Just as she reached for the door handle, I pulled back on her arm. “Grace?”

She sat inches from me. “Yes?”

The air grew warmer inside the cab. I swallowed. “I’m really glad you wanted to go out today.” My hand still rested on her arm. It was like my fingers were on fire wherever I touched her.

“Me, too.”

I squeezed her arm, just once, and she smiled. “Good,” I said, fighting the urge to lean over and kiss her.

Before she could blink and before my chest exploded, I was out of the truck and standing outside her door, my hand reaching for the handle. She looked at me through the window and smiled in that curious way that made words catch in my throat.

I opened the door and Grace slid off the seat. It was difficult not to stare at her legs. They were curvy in all the right places. I reached for her hand and she took mine. This time I didn’t let go, shutting the door with my other hand. I threaded my fingers through hers and the day finally began to feel right, especially when she didn’t pull back.

“Now, about that food.” I nodded my head toward the back door of the restaurant. “Fasten your seatbelt.” I looked down at her and grinned as the cooking smells from my uncle’s kitchen filled the air.

“Done.”

“Will you do me one favor?”

“Anything,” she said, surprising me.

My chest tightened from wanting her. “Let me do all the ordering.”

Grace’s head tossed back and she laughed. “Deal!”

The unmistakable smells of melted cheeses, hatch chilies, chorizo and fresh tortillas welcomed us as we approached the rear door. Someone strummed a classical guitar on the outside patio. People laughed and clapped inside. Somebody’s birthday, maybe? It didn’t matter.

I felt like a genius for choosing Uncle Mario’s restaurant. Even better, I felt like the luckiest
hombre
alive to be walking alongside Grace Mills.

Finally.