A Want So Wicked (A Need So Beautiful #2)(3)

The girl stares at me, her blond hair tied in a messy knot at her neck. “Oh.” She shuffles through the papers on the hostess stand, seeming confused. “I’ll have to grab someone.” She points toward a booth. “You can wait there. I’ll be right back.”

I thank her, and she zigzags around the tables of the dining room toward the swinging door that leads to the kitchen. My stomach turns with anxiety as I go to sit down, smiling politely at several customers when I do. The place is small but comfortable—as if everyone who comes in has known one another forever. I feel like such an outsider.

Suddenly there’s a prickle of cold air across my cheeks, over my arms. A wind that seems to brush my hair aside, although I’m sure it hasn’t moved at all. I glance up and see him—a server in a white button-down shirt, black pants, and black apron. He’s staring at me, his lips curved into a smile.

He murmurs something to the tattooed man behind the counter and grabs a glass of water, tucking a small pad of paper into his apron pocket. Nervousness creeps inside my chest as he walks my way. His grin is lopsided and confident against his tan skin, his black hair cropped short with the front brushed up. He’s stunning.

“Stop my heart,” he says, setting the glass in front of me. “You’re the prettiest thing I’ve seen all summer. I had to give Mario twenty bucks to pick up this table. Hope you tip well.”

“What?” I ask. Did he have me confused with someone else?

“And I swear I’m not just saying that because you’re the only customer in here under fifty.” He gestures toward the other tables.

I look around, making sure his words are meant for me. When it’s clear that they are, I shake my head. “Oh, I’m not actually a—”

“By the way,” he interrupts, holding out his hand. “I’m Abe. Your future love interest.” I wait for him to laugh it off, but instead he sits down across from me. I lower my eyes, unable to meet his dark gaze.

Unlike my sister, I don’t date. Or at least I never have. My father likes to think it’s all of his “wait for the right guy” speeches, but really I just haven’t found anyone who I click with as more than a friend. And Abe doesn’t really seem the friend type, not with an approach like that.

“What’s your name?” Abe asks, putting his elbows on the table and leaning forward.

“Elise.”

His smile fades, and he tips his head back to laugh. “Aw, man. You’re the new server, aren’t you?”

“I think so . . .”

“Damn. I just lost twenty bucks.”

“I’m sorry.”

Abe runs his hand over his face and then grins sheepishly. “For the record,” he says, “the love-interest line usually works.”

“I’m sure.”

Abe takes his notepad from his apron and taps it on the table as if thinking. I watch him, flattered that he approached me at all. I can’t remember the last time someone did.

A sunburn crosses the bridge of his nose, both charming and boyish. His dark brown eyes seem to go on forever. “I’m an idiot,” Abe says.

“No. It was a perfect line. Promise.”

“Thanks. And just to make this even more awkward, I’m the one who’s supposed to train you.”

“We can start over. Would that help?”

“No, no, I think that would just make it worse, but I appreciate the suggestion.” Abe studies me. “Do you go to Mission High, Elise?” he asks.

“Yep. I’ll be a junior.”

“Ah, then we’re rivals,” he says. “I just graduated from Yuma.”

“That’s probably why your lines usually work so well—fresh audience. I bet you’re a legend around here.”

“You have no idea.” He winks and then pulls out his phone, peeking at the time. “Don’t want to cut this short, but I have some actual training to do,” he says. “Are you a fast learner?”

“Sort of.”

“Your confidence is encouraging.” Abe takes a menu from behind the hot sauce and hands it to me. “Let’s start with our specialties.”

He takes a menu of his own, flipping it open. “There is the pollo especial, but don’t ever order it. It’s gross,” Abe says, running his finger down the page. “Or the asada.”

I try to follow along, but he’s going so fast I can’t keep up. And I’m sure I’ll never remember the names of the food—or be able to repeat them.

“The albondigas soup is delicious. And the number eight es muy bueno,” Abe sings in a perfect accent. “It’s my favorite. Now, the espinaca is one of . . .”

Listening to Abe, I don’t notice when the tingling first starts in my fingers. But as it climbs over my hand I begin to tremble. The vibration spreads up my arm, and I set my menu flat on the table to reach for the glass of water. Maybe if I have something to drink I’ll feel better.

The bell above the door jingles as a guy walks in, his overalls clotted with plaster and paint. He nods to the man behind the counter and then absently looks over the restaurant. His eyes widen when he sees me.

I go still as I’m struck with an overwhelming sense of compassion, love. Suddenly the man’s life unfolds within my head, my reality filled with his journey. I begin to panic, but then I’m blanketed in a sense of calm. A sense of purpose.