“You were smart, and vivacious, and you had your whole future planned out. And for some reason, you wanted to be with me. That made me want to be better. You made me want to be better.”
His words had been meant to soothe her fears, but her anguished response let him know they’d had the opposite effect.
“God, Wes. If I’d known what I did would end up with you in jail...”
The threat of tears was there, wavering on the edge of her voice. He knew how much she hated that. Wes blew out a breath. It had been a long day, and she’d earned a break. They both had. They could get into the details tomorrow.
“It was nude photos, wasn’t it?”
Her gaze whipped to his profile. “What?”
“You shouldn’t have been embarrassed to ask me for help. If you think about it, I’m basically the most qualified person on the planet to help you deal with that kind of thing. Not only am I great with computers, I’ve seen you naked a lot. I’m sure I could have gotten them back for you. After an in-depth verification process to make sure all the photos were legit, of course.”
She gave him a shove, but laughter lurked at the corner of her lips, and relief poured through him that she’d smiled at least once.
It was their wedding day, after all.
“You hungry?”
Her eyes lit up, but she tried to mask it with a stoic shrug. “I could eat.”
Wes shoulder checked as he flipped on his signal light and snaked through traffic. “I know just the place.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
STEPPING INTO SEÑOR TACO’S was like stepping back in time.
“Man. This place hasn’t changed a bit.”
Vivienne nodded at Wes’s assessment as they walked into their old haunt.
The gray brick walls, scarred wood floor and dim ambient lighting gave the place a cozy feel. Washes of color came from the fluorescent signs that dotted the walls, advertising a multitude of Mexican alcohol, from Montelobos to Don Julio, and there was a cluster of intricate iron-work chandeliers hanging from the industrial ceiling over the small open area where people sometimes danced when they had live bands on Saturday nights.
They approached the dark wood bar that was inset with tile mosaics and lined with bottles of booze, backlit by blue spotlights.
“Hey. I’ll take a Corona and two shots of house tequila. And two orders of the street tacos,” Wes glanced over at her. “Al pastor and carne asada?”
She nodded at their standard order, feeling stupid that menu items seemed poignant to her. As did the offhand way he’d confirmed before ordering, even though they’d never had anything else off the menu. She fiddled with the ring on her left hand as Wes turned back to the guy at the cash register.
“You can add a side of guacamole and pico de gallo to that.”
After Wes paid, the guy rimmed two shot glasses with coarse salt, filled them with tequila, and laid a lime wedge across each of them. Then he added the Corona and a metal stand with a laminated number six clipped to it.
“Someone will bring out your tacos when they’re ready.”
Wes passed her his beer before he grabbed the shots in one hand and their table number in the other and they turned to face their old stomping grounds. Vivienne’s gaze migrated directly to the back corner, the table she thought of as “theirs.”
There were a couple of big guys with long, wiry beards sitting at it. Internally, she rolled her eyes at the pang of disappointment. She’d accused Wes of trying to summon the Ghost of Christmas Future, and here she was channeling the spirit of Christmas Past.
“Hold these for a second, would you?”
Vivienne accepted the shots in her empty right hand, even as she shook her head. “You don’t have to...there’s a table right over there. It’s fine.”
“I got this.”
She chewed on her bottom lip, watching as he walked over to the two burly, trucker types. No way were they just going to concede the spot when there was an empty table right in front of them. Vivienne turned to scope out anywhere else they could sit. There seemed to be a vacancy on the other side of the dance floor, as well. But much to her surprise, by the time she looked back, the truckers were on their feet, nodding chivalrously at her as they moved their giant burritos to the neighboring table.
Wes’s grin was smug as she approached, and he planted their number on the table like he was Neil Armstrong raising the flag on the moon.
“How’d you manage that?”
“I told them we’re on our honeymoon.”
Vivienne’s hand tightened around the beer bottle at the reminder, and the ring cut into her skin.
“And I gave them five hundred bucks,” Wes confessed, relieving her of the shots and setting them on the scarred wooden tabletop.
“Expensive tacos.”
“Yeah, well. I figure we saved a lot of cash on our wedding garb,” he motioned at her T-shirt and jeans, then his own, “so why not splurge?”
Wes’s attempt to keep things light was appreciated, but even so, her stomach gave a weird little bump as he tugged the stools to the same side of the table. The best formation for people watching, taco sharing and intimate conversation. She wondered if it was only habit, or if he’d made the conscious decision to set the table up like they had the night they’d met...and every other night they’d eaten at Señor Taco’s since.
She set the Corona on the table and they settled onto their seats.
Wes grabbed his tequila. “Salud.”
Vivienne followed suit, lime wedge in one hand, drink in the other. With a quick clink, they downed the pungent liquor. Then the sharp, sour tang of citrus made her scrunch up her nose. She and Wes dropped the rinds into their empty glasses in unison.
Wes. Her husband.
She was suddenly struck by the fact that she barely knew anything about him anymore. That little business venture he’d gotten so obsessed with toward
