Straight from the Hart

by Tracie Banister

  “While you do that, I’m going to run down to the gift shop and grab some things, then wander around a bit. How about I meet you at the restaurant?”

  “Sounds good. We’ll be eating at Las Campanas.” Which translates to ‘The Bells.’ I like that the restaurant’s name not only refers to the bell tower we saw when entering the hotel; it also calls to mind wedding bells, which are symbolic of new beginnings. And that’s what I’m hoping this trip will be for Jax and Jaz.

  “Mexican food—nice!” Alex rubs his hands together gleefully in anticipation of chowing down on his favorite cuisine.

  “I reserved a table outside and it’s supposed to be warm tonight, so you might want to lose the coat and tie.”

  Giving me a sly grin, Alex removes his suit jacket and tosses it onto the patio chair. Next he loosens his tie and slowly pulls one end of the silk strip out of the knot. His blue-gray eyes stay locked on mine as he unfastens the top button of his dress shirt, then pauses with his hand poised over the button beneath it, teasing me with the possibility that he might open that one too and expose more of his chest. I have to stifle a groan of disappointment when he leaves the button in place and finishes dismantling the knot instead. With his tie undone, Alex grabs the end of the dark blue fabric and tugs, liberating it from the collar of his shirt and filling the air with the sensuous sound of silk sliding against cotton.

  It has been way too long since I’ve watched a man undress, and I’ve got to admit this little show Alex is putting on is ridiculously hot. Even better than the male revue I saw at Hunk-O-Mania in Hollywood at the last bachelorette party I attended. However, unlike that night, I will not be sticking any dollar bills in the talent’s waistband.

  “How about this?” Alex queries, the tie dangling from his hand as he opens his arms wide, a move that also makes his shirt stretch and tighten across his pecs.

  “That’ll work,” I say crisply. “See you downstairs at seven-thirty.”

  I head back inside where I snatch up my suitcase and head straight for the en suite bathroom so that I can take a long, cold shower . . . because I need to wash off the road grime, of course.

  CHAPTER 34

  Even though I arrive a couple of minutes ahead of our seven-thirty reservation, Alex beats me to Las Campanas. I find him sitting on a wooden bench several yards down from the restaurant with his phone in his hand, busily texting someone.

  “Ahem.” I clear my throat delicately to let him know I’m there.

  “Almost done,” Alex assures me, still typing away with his thumbs. “I just need to take care of a minor emergency with a client, then I can turn this off for the rest of the— Dayum!” he blurts out when his eyes drift up to mine for a second and the phone slides out of his hand and falls into his lap. “That dress!”

  “This old thing?” I do a little twirl so that he can see the back of my halterneck maxi dress.

  Oh, wait, that’s right, it doesn’t have a back. The halterneck is simply held up by leather-trimmed ties that cross over my bare back and wrap around the bodice. This ankle-skimming dress is made from a beautiful, gauzy fabric that’s perfect for a balmy night outside, and it’s incredibly flattering with how it nips in at the waist and the high slit in front shows titillating glimpses of leg when you move. It’s been a while since I’ve worn black and I’d forgotten how dramatic it can look with my pale skin and fiery hair, which I have piled up in a loose topknot with some wavy strands falling down around my face. I finished the look with gold hoop earrings and a matching cuff bracelet.

  Rising to his feet and shoving his phone in his trouser pocket without bothering to send the important text he was working on, Alex says, “I think I’m going to like Vacation Mode Nessa,” then closes the space between us and reaches out for my hand.

  I pull my hand away before his skin can make contact with mine and declare, “Just because I’ve got on resort wear doesn’t mean I’m not still all-business. We’re here on our client’s dime to help him patch things up with his wife. Don’t forget that.”

  “How can I when you’re constantly reminding me?” he queries dryly. “Makes me wonder if that’s for my benefit or yours.”

  Before I can deny the insinuation, Alex has walked off in the direction of the restaurant, which is annoying, especially because he wasn’t totally off-base. With the two of us dining sans client in a beautiful location as the sun sets, this evening could easily veer into date territory. I even felt a few anticipatory flutters in my stomach while I was getting ready to meet him. And I spent a ridiculous amount of time debating what to wear. I knew the black dress was sexy and didn’t want to give Alex the wrong idea about tonight, but it was the prettiest thing I brought on this trip and I knew I’d look my best in it.

  When a voice inside my head asked if there might not be a little part of me that wanted to wow the man I once loved, I told it to shut up. I was allowed to dress up and look fabulous for myself, wasn’t I? To spite that voice, I slicked on an extra coat of my favorite Marc Jacobs lip gloss, Taboo, then spritzed a little extra perfume behind my ears. On the way down in the elevator, the butterflies that had been fluttering earlier started multiplying and doing loop-de-loops like the traitorous, little bastards thought I should be excited about this meal with Alex. I ordered them to get a grip and muttered, “This is just a business dinner. This is just a business dinner,” over and over until my heart, brain, and body believed it. That is until I saw Alex, immediately flashed back to his mini striptease, and felt irrationally pleased by his reaction to my dress. Purposefully evading his touch and making that snippy comment about tonight being all-business was just a defense mechanism and he saw right through it. I can’t let that happen again, so I need to control my emotions and focus on the job at hand.

  I follow Alex to Las Campanas, my eyes scanning past the large clay pots filled with red and white impatiens to the greenery cascading down the tiled walls on either side of the wrought iron gates that have been opened to allow diners in. Above the gates is a large metal archway with intricate scrollwork surrounding the name of the restaurant, which is spelled out in letters done in a yellow-to-red gradient color palette that I assume is an indication of the varying heat levels of the food inside. On the other side of the archway, there’s a hostess stand, which is flanked by some impressively tall palm trees, and that’s where I rejoin Alex.

  “Ms. Hart,” the hostess welcomes me with a smile. Obviously, Alex already told her what name our reservation was made under. “We’re so pleased to have you and Mr. Farr join us for dinner this evening.” Pulling two black-covered menus from beneath the stand, she says, “Right this way,” and leads us into the restaurant proper.

  Most of the tables are already full and I see lots of attractive couples holding hands, gazing adoringly into each other’s eyes, even feeding each other. Oh, dear . . . I mean, oh, good! I want a restaurant with an intimate, romantic ambiance for Jax and Jaz, don’t I? And this weekend is about them, not me, or my discomfort being here with someone who is just a colleague.

  The hostess shows us to a two-top that is catty-cornered from a large fire pit. Alex pulls out my charmingly weathered iron chair and I take a seat on its cushion, admiring the top of the square table, which is a lovely dark green mosaic with a Mexican-style, multi-colored tile border. I thank the hostess when she hands me a menu and says, “¡Buen provecho!”

  To avoid conversing with my tablemate, I open my menu and lift it up to cover my face, using it as a shield of sorts, then apply myself to studying the options from the antojitos to the postres. Everything looks delicious, even more so because I haven’t eaten a thing since the half of a turkey sandwich I stuffed down at noon, and I am absolutely starving. I’m trying to decide whether I’m in the mood for pork or steak when I hear Alex say something. Unfortunately, this menu isn’t just blocking my view; it’s also making it hard to hear. So all I catch is, “Mumble, mumble, guac.”

  Lowering the restaurant’s bill of fare, I respond with a, �
�Huh?”

  “With the way you were holding your menu, I thought you might need to get your eyes checked. Seems like an audiologist might be in order too.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with my eyes or ears,” I retort tartly. “I had just tuned you and the rest of the restaurant out so that I could concentrate on the menu. What did you say about the guac?”

  “We should get some. They make it fresh tableside.”

  “Good call. I think the Js would get a kick out of that. It’s always fun to see your food being creat—”

  I’m interrupted by the arrival of a waiter wearing a turquoise button-down and black trousers. “Buenas noches,” he greets us, “my name is Carlos and I’ll be your server this evening.” He then sets down two of the biggest margaritas I’ve ever seen in my life. Seriously. The circumference of the glass is almost the size of my face! I can’t imagine how many ounces of alcohol that monster holds—it’s like three or four margaritas in one, which is a great deal if you’re looking to get smashed, but I am not.

  I open my mouth to protest that we didn’t order these drinks, but Carlos anticipates that and says, “Please enjoy our signature cocktail, the Mission Inn Perfect, courtesy of Mr. Masters.”

  Shoot, now I can’t turn the margarita away without offending the hotel’s big cheese. So I paste a smile on my face and say, “That’s very kind of your general manager. Let him know how much we appreciate the gesture.”

  He nods in deference. “I will. Can I take your order now, or did you need more time?”

  “Nessa?” Alex raises a questioning eyebrow.

  “I haven’t decided yet.”

  “Okay, then we’ll go ahead and order the guacamole fresco and tortilla chips and get back to you on our mains,” Alex tells the waiter.

  “Very good.” Carlos leaves us to our menus and margaritas.

  Raising the supersized, deep-welled glass to his lips, Alex takes a long draught. “Mmmmm, that’s incredible. Best margarita I’ve had in a while.” His tongue darts out to lick the salt from the glass’s rim off his upper lip and for a fleeting second, I imagine how those granules would feel and taste if I pressed my mouth to his.

  No, no, NO! I am not supposed to be having fantasies about kissing my ex. What is wrong with me? Look away, Vanessa. Look away NOW!

  Dropping my eyes to the menu, I reread every description of every dish as if there’s going to be a quiz on the info later.

  “You really should try this,” Alex says, seemingly unaware of my distress. “I know you’re not crazy about lime, but the citrus in this is more orange-y.”

  “Glad you like it, but I’m going to pass on any alcoholic beverages since I’m technically working.” I shove the glass off to the side before changing subjects. “There’s a nice selection on this menu, so the Js should be able to find whatever they’re in the mood for when they dine here. I don’t see anything on the menu with almonds, not even the desserts, so Jaz won’t have to worry about having a reaction. Do she or Jax have any other allergies or dietary restrictions I should know about?”

  “Nope.” Alex shakes his head before taking another swig of his margarita. “And they both love Mexican cuisine, just different spice levels. The hotter, the better is Jax’s motto while Jaz prefers a milder flavor.”

  “The opposite of us then.”

  “Maybe back in the day, but I’ve developed a much higher tolerance for heat over the last few years. I can now eat a raw bell pepper without breaking into a sweat or having to chase it with a glass of milk,” Alex reports, clearly very proud of this accomplishment.

  I smirk. “Hate to break it to you, but bell peppers have no capsaicin, which means no heat. They rate a big fat goose egg on the Scoville scale.”

  He frowns. “Come on! Even the red ones? Red has to mean hot.”

  “Maybe to a Midwestern boy whose mother thought a dish was spicy if she sprinkled some black pepper on top of it.”

  “How dare you!” He pretends to be affronted, but the twinkle in his eyes tells another story. “I’ll have you know my mom is the best cook in all of Newton County, Missouri. The things that woman can do with a can of Cream of Mushroom soup.” He does a chef’s kiss, which cracks me up.

  After my laughter subsides, I say, “I guess I should be grateful to Viv for exposing me to such a wide variety of cuisines, so my palate was trained to appreciate all kinds of spice at a young age.”

  “I’ve got a theory that your ability to not only withstand, but enjoy, tongue-searing levels of heat is directly related to you being a redhead.”

  “But the sun, which is also a source of heat, is no friend to the ginger.”

  Alex waves a hand dismissively. “The sun is an external source of heat, so it can’t be compared to something that’s ingested. And you just lent credence to my theory by reminding me that redheads are often referred to as a spice.” He sits back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest, looking very pleased with himself.

  “Redheads are likened to ginger because that root has an orange tint to its skin, not because they’re spicy. I can further disprove your theory by citing that my mother, who is also a redhead, thinks the bean burrito at Taco Bell is too hot, and that’s without any red sauce!”

  “You’re making that up,” he accuses. “No way has Dr. Victoria Hart, PhD ever set foot in a Taco Bell.”

  “No, but she has used the drive-thru on many occasions. Taco Bell was my favorite place to eat as a child and my mother always had parental guilt about not spending enough time with me, so she would take me there for a meal as a treat several times a month and I would inhale four crunchy tacos with diablo sauce in one sitting.”

  “I’m simultaneously impressed and horrified by that story.”

  I chortle and feel the tension ease out of my body. One of the things I always enjoyed about my relationship with Alex was how we challenged each other and had fun doing it—whether we were debating what shape a pizza slice should be (Alex was raised on St. Louis-style pie that’s cut into squares, which is just wrong as far as I’m concerned, and don’t even get me started on that weird, cracker-like crust!) or the positives/negatives of 3D films (I really don’t need dinosaurs and superheroes jumping out of the screen at me!). It’s nice to be able to return to this comfortable place with him.

  I’m in a much better frame of mind when Carlos reappears with his rolling prep cart and lists out all of the ingredients available to us for the guac. I perk up at his mention of serrano peppers and enthusiastically request, “A double helping of those please!” Out of the corner of my eye, I see Alex grimace and I can’t help but giggle. “I’m kidding,” I tell Carlos before assuring my ex, “I wouldn’t do that to you. Think you can handle a few chili flakes?”

  Breathing a sigh of relief, he says, “Absolutely,” and a few minutes later, we’re both happily munching on light, crispy tortilla chips piled high with our made-to-order guac.

  I caution myself to take it easy on the chips so that I’ll have room for my carnitas and maybe some of that yummy-sounding flan they serve on a bed of chocolate buttermilk cake for dessert. But the chips and guac are so tasty and addictive, I can’t stop eating them. I put so much of the flavorful dip on one chip that the weight of it breaks the chip in half on its way to my mouth and the guac hits the table with a splat. My eyes widen comically at my breach of table etiquette, and Alex chuckles.

  “Could have been worse,” he says. “A couple inches closer to your mouth and that glob of avocado would be sliding into your cleavage right now. Not that I would have minded that.” His mouth twitches up on one side in a naughty half-smile.

  Oh, lord, is he flirting with me?

  Leaning forward with his elbows on the table, Alex queries, “Have I mentioned how gorgeous you look in that dress?” The husky tone the question’s delivered in makes several body parts tighten in response. “It reminds me of that little black number you wore for my birthday a few years ago. Do you remember?”

  “Not really
,” I lie and quickly stuff a guac-less tortilla chip in my mouth so that I can break eye contact and have something to do with my hands.

  “Allow me to refresh your memory then. You showed up at Pinnacle wearing this slinky black dress that fit you like a second skin. It was a halterneck, so your back and shoulders were bare and it was cut above the knee, which made your legs look as long as a supermodel’s. Every guy in the office, even the gay ones, had their tongues hanging out of their mouths because you looked so sexy. You announced you were whisking me off for a special birthday surprise, then you took me to that fancy fondue place on Cahuenga that was the hot, new spot at the time. We had the four-course tasting menu, which was more or less two hours of the most sensual foreplay with us feeding each other bites of rich food coated in warm, dripping cheeses and chocolates. After dinner, we took a drive up Mulholland and pulled over to park at one of the overlooks—”

  “The end,” I cut him off before he can launch into a description of what transpired in the driver’s seat of his car after we parked. Suffice it to say, I had more than one birthday surprise for him that year. Thanks to this memory, I can now feel heat rising up my neck, which means I’m seconds away from it reaching my face and turning into a full, cheek-pinkening blush.

  “Thanks for the fondue date idea,” I say in an attempt to bring the time machine Alex is piloting back to the present. “I’ve got some clients who enjoy different culinary experiences and their anniversary is coming up, so that would be perfect for them.” Grabbing my phone, I go through the motions of making a note to myself about this.

  I’ve just returned the device to my purse when all the lights twined around the palm trees edging the restaurant blink on. The sky has darkened to a deep purplish-blue tinged with the last, pinkish remnants of the sunset, which the white lights sparkle against just like the fairies they’re named after. The thicker-trunked trees mixed in among the palms have large, illuminated stars hanging on them and there are green lights on the ground reflecting off the ivy-covered walls of the small alcoves beyond the fire pit on either side of the restaurant. Their green glow, along with the twinkly fairy lights, make Las Campanas feel magical as though the night is rife with possibilities and something totally unexpected and wonderful might happen. Gulp.