each one, too.”
Calla shook her head, barely feeling the cold as she stared at her bright, lively windows. The pictures were definitely eye-catching from the sidewalk, and even from the street.
“You’re brilliant. How could I have missed putting pictures of cakes in the window? I have the catalog in here on the counter, but I never considered this.”
“Well, it was one of Diedre’s ideas, and she is brilliant. You can’t think of everything, Calla. You have a lot to deal with here, making these cakes.”
“Remind me to send your sister a thank-you. This is very sweet, Gideon,” she said again, feeling a little choked up.
Calla had felt alone in her career since she’d started out. While she had friends, they were also often her competitors. Her family was far away, and supported her in a general sense, but not like this. No one had ever done anything like this for her. Even as she stood there, people stopped to check out the window and pointed to which cakes they liked best.
They went back inside, and Calla turned to Gideon, giving him a spontaneous hug. It didn’t matter to her if anyone was watching.
“I did have fun today. I’ll have to get here a little earlier tomorrow to finish, but this really was wonderful.”
“I’m glad,” he said, loosening the bun she’d pulled her hair back into and running his fingers through it in a way that lit up her nerve endings as brightly as the shop.
“Maybe we could get some dinner and head back to my place?”
“Sounds great. I’m starving,” he said with a chuckle, backing away.
Calla missed his touch when he let go. Oh, no. That wasn’t good. She had to be tired—she was feeling far more warm and fuzzy than she should. This was only a fling, only sex. And Gideon was just being nice, helping her with the shop.
“Me, too, really,” she said with a smile, closing up and grabbing her coat. “It’s been a long time since lunch.”
As they walked out onto the street, Gideon didn’t let go of her hand.
“So, you know the city and the food better than I do. Any preference?”
“It’s too late for a lot of restaurants if we don’t have reservations, especially this time of year, but I have a friend who runs a small place in Spanish Harlem where you can get the best burrito in the city.”
“Better than that place on Rudd St. in Houston?”
“Oh, man, way better,” she said, rolling her eyes. “No comparison.”
She knew the spot he meant; it was one of the places cops ate regularly because it was open all night. It had a decent menu for a take-out place, but nothing like Diego’s.
“Let’s go, then,” he said jovially.
“We should take a cab—it’s in East Harlem, and probably not a place you want to leave your rental car,” she said, letting go of his hand as she stepped to the curb and hailed a taxi with an earsplitting whistle.
The yellow cab appeared at the curb, screeching to a halt.
“Wow,” Gideon said, holding the door for her as they got in. “That was impressive. I tried to grab one a few times today, and it took me three tries.”
“It depends on the time of day, the weather, and if they are on duty or not. And a good strong whistle doesn’t hurt. One of the useful things my brothers taught me to do.”
Gideon was sure a nice pair of legs helped, too.
The ride was fast and furious, and Calla let Gideon keep her close in the back of the cab. Far too soon, the cabbie pulled up to the curb again.
“Are you sure this is it?” Gideon asked, looking around as they paid and got out of the cab.
Calla laughed and took his arm. “Yes, quite sure.”
A short ways down the street, she turned him into an alley and opened a door on the side, where the spicy scents of peppers and cumin met them and made her mouth water.
“Awesome, there’s a table open,” she said, grabbing his arm and pulling him toward a corner in the back.
The small cantina was crowded and alive with chatter as they claimed what seemed to be the last table in the place. Calla slid up onto the raised seat, victorious.
“I wouldn’t have expected this from the outside,” Gideon said, looking around in appreciation at the warm brick walls decorated with authentic Mexican textiles and other art. “It smells like heaven in here.”
“There are a lot of places like this in the city. Real estate is expensive and hard to come by, so small hidden gems like this are everywhere.”
“And you know the owner?”
“Yes. Diego is the head chef, as well. He grew up in this neighborhood.”
As soon as she said it, her friend appeared at the edge of the kitchen and spotted her. He smiled, heading directly toward her. Calla met him halfway with a hearty hug.
“Calla, what a wonderful surprise.”
“I have a friend visiting from Texas. I couldn’t let him leave the city without tasting your amazing burritos.”
Calla lead Diego back to the table and she saw Gideon watching them, his eyes narrowed slightly, his jaw tight.
“Gideon, this is Diego Jones, the owner and the chef. And the guy who saved my butt in sauces back in school.”
“Nice to meet you, Gideon,” Diego said heartily, shaking Gideon’s hand. “Dinner is on the house tonight. I got my hands on some fresh stone crab today, and I’m using it for late-night special burritos. Do you like seafood?”
Calla smiled. Diego was one of the warmest and most generous people she knew, and it came out in his personality and his cooking.
“A crab burrito?” Gideon said, somewhat skeptically.
Calla squeezed Diego’s arm as she levered herself back up into her chair. “Trust me, you won’t want to miss it.”
“Bring it on, then,” Gideon said with another slight smile.
“I hope you’ll enjoy it. Calla, you need to not be such a stranger.”
Diego kissed her cheek before being called by another table; he backed away with a smile.
“Believe me, you won’t ever find any food like what you are about to have here. His combinations of flavors and textures are mind-blowing.”
Gideon nodded. “You two seem...close.”
“We are. I’ve always been more of a baker than a cook, and I met Diego in a course on sauces. I was botching it entirely. He saved my bacon...or my sauce, I suppose. He spent a lot of time out of class helping me perfect my technique.”
“For sauce?”
“Well, yeah, what else?”
“It certainly is a popular place,” Gideon commented as a server delivered two huge, colorful margaritas to their table.
Calla watched him touch the glass, picking up a strange vibe. He was tense, suddenly quiet, and even a bit surly.
Was Gideon jealous?
And why did that idea make her have to fight a female sense of satisfaction? She and Gideon weren’t an item. They weren’t even in a relationship. In a few days he’d be gone.
She was probably imagining his reaction. He was very likely just tired.
“Calla? Are you okay?”
“Oh, yes, sorry. I was just thinking about this place. He doesn’t even advertise, which is amazing,” Calla said wistfully. “He has a terrific product,