Just a Taste (10 page)

She stood close to him and her perfume wafted up as a cold breeze swept through the open window. She picked at a leaf of cilantro and sighed. “My dad always said part of why his food was so good was because of the love he had for it. Maybe your heart's not in it.”

While he'd always been passionate about cooking, he didn't believe that not having his heart in making tacos would ruin them. Shit, anyone could follow a recipe and have it turn out decently. He looked down into her dark, soulful eyes. He lost all train of thought and leaned down to brush his lips across hers.

Her sudden intake of breath hitched a little, but she relaxed against him as he put his hands under her hair. His thumbs stroked her jaw as he tilted her head up for better access. She was soft and smooth and he inched closer to feel more of her.

Carmen grabbed at his shirt on his chest, bunching the material, but then she flattened her hand and gave him a push. He took a small step back, but didn't release her face.

“What are you doing?”

“I'm kissing you. Did you not like it?” He knew the answer, but as a gentleman, he had to ask.

“Yes. No. What about your girlfriend?”

Now he did drop his hands. “What girlfriend?”

She sidestepped him in the small space. “The one who rushed out of your apartment yesterday morning?”

Yesterday? Ahh . . . Lily. “I don't have a girlfriend. That was Lily, and while she's a girl and my friend, she isn't my girlfriend. We hang out together and cook sometimes.”

“But she spent the night?”

“On my couch. She had too much to drink before dinner the night before and passed out.”

“Oh.”

What did that mean? He gave Carmen a minute, but she added nothing. Maybe that was answer enough. He thought he'd read all the signals she'd sent over their last few meetings. This was what he got for not thinking things through.

He pointed over his shoulder toward the grill. “I should get back to cooking if I want to get this truck on the road by next week.”

She reached out to him, her fingers brushing his shirt at the waist. “Wait. Uh. I liked the kiss. A lot. I'm just not sure about this.”

He smiled. “No pressure.” He flipped off the grill. “I'm going to go back to the store for more food to figure out these recipes.”

“It might be easier to get the recipes right in a regular kitchen and then adapt for here.”

“Nah. I'd rather figure it out where it needs to work. Are you okay with me staying around to cook?”

She smiled brightly, the relaxed smile he loved to see. “Of course. We're partners.
Mi camión es su camión
.”

“Translation?”

She winked at him as she headed out the door. “My truck is your truck. See you later.”

Yes, indeed, she certainly would see him later.

CHAPTER 6

C
armen walked back into the house in a bit of a daze. Not only had Liam kissed her, but then she had flirted as she left. She didn't even know where that came from. And without a drop of alcohol to boot.

She still felt the tickle of his mustache against her lip and his firm grip on her head. Her skin warmed with the memory. She'd wanted to continue, but she pulled back. She wouldn't kiss another woman's boyfriend, but he was single. Did that mean she wanted it to happen again?

Her stomach fluttered with the thought. She hadn't had many boyfriends in her life. A couple of brief relationships in college and a few random dates since moving back home. The thought of starting something with Liam didn't seem smart. They were partners for at least the next year, so if things fizzled between them, she'd have to face him daily for work.

Plus, he would probably want to move on as soon as they could sell the truck. What would that mean for them?

She was getting ahead of herself. It was a kiss. Even if it happened again, maybe it wouldn't go any further.

She went to her parents' old bedroom, which was now empty of everything, and popped open the can of paint. She'd work through her thoughts about Liam, weigh the pros and cons while she painted the room. The process would take care of two problems simultaneously.

Too bad Rosa was working. Having her input on Liam would help. She understood guys much better than Carmen did. Rosa had experience. Just thinking about her own lack of experience made her stomach churn again. She grabbed her paint pan and swiped the roller against the wall.

Later that day, when she checked her mail, she was hit with another surprise. An envelope from her dad's lawyer containing a letter from her dad. She'd know Gus's messy scrawl anywhere. She didn't know how long she stared at the envelope before determining she couldn't open it. Not yet. She tucked it into a drawer and went back to painting.

The pale blue made her smile. Her parents had always kept every wall in the house some shade of white. As if white really had different shades. She'd begged for color in her room as a teenager, but they refused. Of course, she'd also asked for black, during her brief goth phase, so it wasn't surprising that they'd said no.

But now, especially, she needed color, vibrance, to beat back the nagging sadness. She turned on the radio and danced through the job. Before she knew it, two walls were done, she had streaks of blue on her arms and her jeans, but she felt relaxed. The color definitely worked its magic.

She took a step back and surveyed her work. She probably wouldn't ever get work as a professional painter, but the results pleased her. After putting the lid on the can of paint, she cleaned the roller in the bathroom sink while singing and swaying to the music she had blaring from the living room.

Even the music made her inordinately happy. Her parents never let her blast music either. Guilt battled with her joy. She felt such freedom in the absence of her parents, which intensified the guilt. She missed them. Every moment, every day. But this was the first time since she left for college that she'd been on her own, and she was loving it.

A throat cleared behind her and she jumped, spinning around with the wet roller in her hand. Water sprayed across the bathroom wall, leaving a splatter of watery blue as it dripped. A few spots flew out at Liam, who stood in the doorway.

She froze in shock. She set the roller in the sink. “Gosh, I'm sorry. I didn't hear you and when I did, you totally took me by surprise. Here.” She grabbed a towel and blotted at his shirt.

His hands caught hers. He leaned close to her ear to talk. “It's okay, Carmen. You left the back door unlocked, so I let myself in.”

Having his body so close reminded her of their kiss. She pulled away before she acted on her stupid hormones. “Hold on,” she said. She hurried into the living room and turned off the radio. “Sorry about that. I didn't even know you were still here.”

“I'm here all right. The truck is clean. The food is all in the trash. Maybe you were right. I'm going to try again in my kitchen.”

“You threw everything out?”

“I had some uncooked food that I shoved in your refrigerator, but everything I cooked got tossed. It wasn't as bad as the first batch, but it was nothing special either.” He shook his head. “I haven't been this stumped since my pastry class in school.”

He needed help. She closed her eyes and sighed before offering the one thing she didn't think she could do. “I'll teach you.”

“What?”

Reopening her eyes, she stared into his intense blue gaze. “I'll teach you to cook like my parents.”

“I thought you said—”

“I'm not a cook, but my mother taught me everything she knew.” Turning back to the mess in the sink, she said, “Give me a minute.”

He backed away from the bathroom and she immediately began to regret the offer. Images of cooking with her mom flooded her head. Not long after her mother had been diagnosed with cancer, Carmen had moved back home. Even in her weakened state, Inez insisted on cooking every day.

She wanted to make sure that Carmen could cook. Inez believed it was a skill every woman needed, especially if she wanted to get and keep a man. Carmen still rolled her eyes at that one. When the roller was clean, she leaned it against the edge of the sink and looked at her reflection in the mirror.

She hadn't cooked since her mother died. Well, she cooked in order to eat, but not like she had with her mother.

Back in the kitchen, Liam had already gotten the remaining groceries out of the refrigerator. Carmen licked her lips as nervousness swamped her.

“So show me what you got,” Liam said lightly. His teasing was just what she needed to move into action.

She went into the freezer and pulled out one of the few containers she'd kept. “This is mole sauce. Maybe you've heard of it. We don't have the time or the ingredients for me to start a new batch, so we'll save that lesson for another day.”

After popping the container in the microwave to defrost it, she set to work chopping more peppers and onions. She wasn't nearly as skilled as Liam, but she managed to get the job done. “Get some chicken out of the fridge.”

He grabbed a couple of chicken breasts, ones that would've been her dinner for later in the week, only now instead of being baked plain, they would be slathered in sauce and seasoning like the food of her childhood. She almost groaned at the thought.

She worked on instinct, her hands moving by rote after having cooked with her mother so much. With every slice and chop, she remembered her mother's plump hands correcting Carmen's. As she dumped everything into the pot on the stove, she could hear her mother's words, “Always taste as you work, so you'll know if you need to fix things.”

Before she could act on her thought, Liam was at her elbow with a spoon in hand, dipping it in. He tasted and smiled. “Pretty good.”

She smirked. “You ain't seen nothin' yet.”

Teasing and playing with Liam kept her mind off memories of her mother. She was able to focus on the task at hand. Liam needed to cook like a Mexican. He stood watch over every move she made. He said nothing. He didn't comment or correct, even though she knew he would do things differently. She could almost see him taking mental notes.

With the flame doing its job of cooking their food, Carmen turned to him. “While that cooks, why don't you tell me what you want to do to the menu?”

“I told you I didn't know yet.”

“And I think I know you well enough to know that while you were destroying recipes out in the truck, you were also thinking about other possibilities.” She sat down at the table and put her feet up on the chair adjacent. Until that moment, she hadn't realized how tired she was.

He picked up her feet and sat in the chair, repositioning her legs across his. Something about the motion made her uncomfortable, like the gesture was too intimate, which was silly.

“At first I was thinking maybe we go gourmet—”

She couldn't stop the cringe.

He patted her calf. “But then I realized that would never work. So then I thought what if we went to the opposite direction? Instead of trying to make tacos fancy, what if we make everything on the truck traditional?”

“Tacos are pretty traditional. So are the rice and beans.”

“But they're not street food. When I think about Chicago street food, the first thing that pops into my head is elotas.”

This time she laughed. “Are you kidding me? My father is probably rolling in his grave to hear you suggest that. The whole idea of him creating the food truck was to get away from the image of the street vendor pushing a cart through the neighborhood.”

“But people like it. I remember running errands for the bar with my dad and if we saw an elotas cart, I begged him to stop. Even at the age of ten, I wanted to know how to make it. And what about churros? Who doesn't like a sweet cinnamon dessert? It's all walking food. People can grab it and go.”

“I don't know, Liam. It's a risk. People could also look at our truck as though it's worse than fast food and walk on down the street to find a burger.”

His face lit with excitement, which was an unusual look for him. “We won't let them. We just have to make ourselves irresistible. Word will get around, like it did for your dad when he started the truck.”

She pulled her legs down and stood, the aches returning tenfold to the arches of her feet. Her thighs burned and her shoulders tightened. The painting and running around had caught up with her. She went to the stove and pulled the chicken out and began to shred it.

“Are you going to tell me what you're making?”

“A non-walking food—enchiladas.” The spicy scent of the mole sauce hit her and she was reminded once again of her mother. Her dad's mole sauce had been a great temptation for her as a kid. She'd pour it on anything. Spooning the sauce carefully over the chicken, her mother's voice rang in her head again, “Not too much, Carmen, you want to be able to taste the food.”

Once the chicken was ready, she filled the tortillas and rolled them. Again, Liam said nothing. He simply watched. She wondered what he was thinking. With the tortillas in the pan, she spread sauce and cheese on the top and put it in the oven. “It's almost ready. Now you can tell why I don't cook. It takes forever. When it's time to eat, I just want to get it over with. The prepping and cooking and waiting make me crazy.”

“A math test is something you want to just get over with. Not a good meal. How did you miss that one important lesson from your dad?”

She hadn't. No matter what they had going on in their lives, her family always ate at least one meal a day together, even if it meant they ate at the restaurant while on break. But all of those meals contributed to her battle with her weight her entire life. It hadn't been until she reached college that she felt in control and she'd been hesitant to loosen that control, especially since being back at home.

“Every meal can't be special. In fact, most aren't. It's fuel for your body. Yes, there are times when the effort makes a difference, but for everyday eating? Simple is the way to go.” She returned to her chair and sighed. She was going to be so sore tomorrow.

“Simple doesn't have to be plain or tasteless.”

“Who said I eat tasteless food?”

“I've seen your refrigerator, remember? I've eaten lunch with you and I've seen the nasty salad you portray as a meal.”

Her cheeks flushed. Of course he would notice. “I ate with you at food trucks yesterday,” she pointed out.

“Only after I coerced you.”

She shook her head, desperate to change the topic. “Back to crappy street food. How do you suggest we convince people to part with their money for some elotas and churros?”

He leaned back in his chair. “I haven't worked that part out yet. I'm not suggesting we roll out with this next week. I need to get the hang of the truck and develop a plan.”

The enchiladas baked in the oven and the smell made her stomach grumble. She'd skipped lunch in her excitement to get her new room painted. The upside would be that she'd actually eat the meal she'd created.

Liam stood and went back to the refrigerator. “Got any wine or beer?”

“Maybe. Rosa often brings stuff and leaves it.”

He popped up with a couple of bottles of light beer and handed her one. “If you prefer, I can run to the store for something else.”

“This is fine. Not much of a drinker, remember?” Her cheeks warmed again at the thought of what happened the last time she drank with him.

“Dinner smells about done.”

She moved to stand, but he held up a hand to stop her. “You cooked. I'll serve and clean up. You look beat.”

Instead of arguing, which was her initial reaction, she sat back and propped her feet on his chair again. This time it was her turn to watch as he moved around her kitchen. She liked the way he moved, so sure and confident. He plated the food, giving her far too much like he did every time, but her stomach growled so she didn't complain. She would be back to plain chicken breast or salmon tomorrow. Tonight she would indulge.

As Liam put the dish in front of her, she looked at his mouth and thought she'd like to indulge in that some more too.