Rock Chick Regret (Rock Chick #7)(63)

I ignored my discomfort, walked into the casual, worn-in restaurant like I went there every day and sat down in the booth, planting my behind dead center so Hector would get no ideas that he was sharing my seat with me.

He slid in opposite me, still grinning and I got the impression my act didn’t convince him and further he found it highly amusing.

I ignored this too.

Dinner, luckily, didn’t last long. They didn’t mess around with taking and serving your order and I figured that had something to do with the line at the door. A line, incidentally, that we circumvented by Hector smiling at the lady behind the cash register, her face lighting up in recognition, the two of them exchanging rapid-fire Spanish and her elbowing her way through the crowd and seating us at a booth that was getting its finishing wipe down by a busboy. This, I noted with a glance at the door, was not greeted with delight by the waiting customers but I ignored that too.

There was barely any conversation due to my avid fascination of, at first, my menu then the restaurant’s décor then every person in line waiting to get in then my fellow patrons and finally, my newfound wonder at watching a no-sound Mexican soap opera on the television above the bar.

No matter how tasty the food was (and it was tasty), I hardly ate a bite (thank goodness Blanca wasn’t there or she would have had a conniption). Hector paid, we slid out of the booth, he walked me to the Bronco with his hand on my elbow and then it was over.

Dinner down, I just had to survive “the talk”.

If in one day I could survive three lectures, a sex talk, a reunion with the husband of my long, lost mother’s best friend, the revealing of the knowledge that Indy, Ally and Lee were babydom playmates and a “just the two of us” dinner with Hector then I could survive “the talk”.

No problem.

I stared out the window of the Bronco wondering if I might be in Crete next week or next month. Then I wondered if I would like Crete. Then I wondered if they spoke any English on Crete. I was mentally planning on downloading English to Greek lessons on my iPod when Hector parked on a street.

I came out of my thoughts, looked around and immediately realized my mistake at letting my mind wander.

We weren’t outside Capitol Hill where the brownstone was located, we were somewhere else. A clean, tidy, well-established, family neighborhood with clean, tidy, well-kept houses with clean, tidy, well-kept lawns and moderately-priced vehicles lining the street.

“Where are…?” I started, my head turning toward Hector but he was out of the Bronco and rounding the hood.

Blooming heck!

He opened my door.

“Where are we?” I asked the minute he did.

He grabbed my hand and with a firm tug he pulled me out of the car. He dropped my hand, I fell into his waiting ones, he swung my around, set me on my feet on the sidewalk and twisted to slam my door. Then he took my hand again and charged up the sidewalk.

I walked double-time to keep up with him all the while pulling at his hold. “Hector, where are we?”

He didn’t look back when he answered, “My place.”

Blooming, blooming, heck!

“Why are we at your place?” I asked when he stopped at the front door.

“Privacy,” he replied, unlocking the door, shoving it open and before I could make a run for it he had a hand in the small of my back and he was pushing me in.

I entered and stopped.

I was standing on a two step up, dark wood platform, half walls to either side made of the same wood and columns at the end of each. Straight ahead, down the two steps and about five feet away was a wall, along its side, a set of dark wood stairs and matching banister.

On the left side of us was a room that held a jumble of furniture and boxes but also a beautiful, tiled fireplace that looked like it had been scrubbed, the wood of the mantel sanded and refinished to a warm sheen. The walls looked freshly painted in a dusky gray-blue and the floors were obviously refinished. There were closed French doors I couldn’t see through at the other end of that room well down from the wall that separated the room from the stairs.

On the right side of us was another room, filled with paint cans, brushes and tools (hand tools as well as big, heavy power tools with lots of cords). The fireplace in that room looked grimy and as yet untouched but refinished, it’d be gorgeous. Beyond that room was an open doorway which led to a kitchen.

Hector’s hand at my back guided me down the steps and we stopped. He headed left, I heard the rustle of plastic and I turned to watch him.

He was uncovering a big, overstuffed armchair covered in midnight blue twill. Once uncovered, he dragged it into the empty but renovation implements room and positioned it in the center.

On the way back, he shrugged off his jacket and threw it on the banister. Then he came to me, walked around me, pulled off my trench, tagged my purse, threw my coat on his and hooked my purse straps around the newel post.

After doing all of this, he grabbed my hand, strode to the chair, sat and then tugged my hand again sharply until I went off-balance. His hands went to my waist and he guided my body until I was seated in his lap.

I didn’t protest any of this not because I didn’t want to but because I was coming to terms with the fact that, obviously, Hector was fixing up his own house.

This affected me deeply, for two reasons.

First, for as long as I could remember, my father had a personal groomer who came to the house every two weeks. She trimmed my father’s hair, gave him a clean shave and finished off with a manicure. My father’s fingernails were perfectly clipped and shone so brightly it was almost like he was wearing a coat of clear polish. As far as I knew, he never picked up anything but a fork, a pen, a book or a golf club in his life. Never a hammer or a paint brush. Never. He’d also never operated anything with a cord except, perhaps, his razor (though, I must admit, I’d not familiarized myself with his personal hygiene).