Chapter Forty-Three
A SEAT AT THE TABLE
Andi
The warm, spicy aroma of sizzling fajitas and freshly baked tortillas envelops us as we step into El Camino, the local Mexican joint known for its vibrant atmosphere and killer margaritas.
The hostess leads us to a cozy booth near the back, where the hum of laughter and clinking glasses creates a lively backdrop.
Kate slides in first, followed by Jack, who offers a polite nod in my direction. Cole and I settle across from them, his hand finding mine under the table—it’s a small gesture, but it sends a comforting warmth through me.
As we peruse the menus, Kate leans over, her eyes twinkling. “Andi, you have to try their guacamole. It’s life-changing.”
I grin. “I’m always up for a culinary revelation.”
Kate picks up her menu, skimming it with a little hum of approval. “They’ve updated the menu since we were last here,” she says, lifting her brows at Jack. “The shrimp tacos look tempting.”
Jack leans back in the booth, arms stretched out like he owns the place. “As long as they haven’t messed with the margarita recipe, I’m good.”
Cole smirks beside me, then glances over. “Remember the last time we were here?” he says, his elbow brushing mine. “You dared me to try the ghost pepper salsa.”
I let out a snort, the memory bubbling up fast. “Your face turned a shade of red I didn’t know was medically possible.”
Kate laughs, the sound light and genuine, like she’s just happy to be here. “Sounds like you two have some spicy memories here.”
Before I can fire back with a witty retort, the waiter arrives to take our order. Drinks are delivered quickly—margaritas all around, except for Cole, who opts for a beer with a wink in my direction. When we clink glasses, the moment feels easy, like we’ve all done this before.
Cole rests his arm behind me along the back of the booth, his thumb absently stroking the back of my hand under the table. It’s subtle, almost unconscious, but grounding—like he’s reminding me I’m not alone here.
I catch myself smiling more than I expected.
Our food arrives in a colorful, sizzling parade—fajitas, tacos, the scent of lime and cilantro making my mouth water. I’m halfway into a chip when Kate tilts her head at me, smiling like she’s been sitting on this question all night.
“So, Andi,” she says innocently, “any embarrassing stories about Cole you’d like to share?”
Cole groans beside me. “Or you could, you know, not.”
I grin, already picturing it. “Well… there was that time he tried to cook dinner to impress me and set off the smoke alarm.”
Kate’s eyes sparkle. “Oh, do tell.”
“He lit the oil on fire,” I say, deadpan. “Trying to ‘sear’ something. There was a lot of smoke. A lot.”
“In my defense,” Cole mutters, his cheeks pink, “the recipe was misleading. It was very unclear about the part where I wasn’t supposed to dump the oil in all at once.”
Jack chuckles, shaking his head. There’s been progress between them.
“Excuse me, Mom,” Cole snorts. “You once burned Jell-O.”
“Jell-O can be temperamental!”
The laughter around the table is easy now, flowing like the tequila. For a while, it feels like the world outside the booth doesn’t exist—just four people, good food, better drinks, and easy conversation.
Even Jack, who had been stiff when we first sat down, seems to relax. His shoulders no longer look like they’re bracing for an ambush, and he’s not avoiding Cole’s gaze as much.
By the time the plates are cleared and the last round of drinks is being nursed, I lean into Cole’s side, warm, full, and just a little sleepy from the food.
He turns his head and murmurs, “Thanks for coming tonight. It means a lot.”
I look up at him and smile, fingers tightening around his. “I’m glad we did.”
His thumb brushes over my knuckles again, slow and deliberate.
And under the soft hum of the restaurant and the fading buzz of conversation, I let myself hope that this—whatever this is—might just work.
I glance up from my desk when I hear the door creak open.
It’s Cole.
He’s still in his uniform, his hair is messy, and there’s fatigue around his eyes, but his smile—when it hits—still knocks the air from my lungs.
He crosses to me and props a hip against the metal counter. “Busy night?”
“Not really. Quiet. I got stuck with the paperwork because Mikey bailed early. Again.”
He winces in sympathy. “Want me to rough him up?”
“Please do. Just don’t get blood on my tables. I’m already behind on disinfecting.”
We stand there for a moment—me scribbling something on a chart, him watching me like I’m doing something fascinating instead of just marking liver temps.
“You’re quiet,” I say finally, not looking at him. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah,” he says. “I just like watching you work.”
I glance up, skeptical. “You’re watching me weigh a gallbladder.”
His eyes soften. “Still counts.”
I snort and go back to the chart, trying to act like my heart isn’t doing the Macarena in my chest.
He doesn’t speak again for a while, just stays where he is, close but not crowding. There’s comfort in it. In him. I’ve gotten used to that—his presence, his steadiness, his stupid jokes, soft touches, and the way he always seems to know when I need him.
Too used to it.
Which is maybe why, when I finally set the clipboard down and glance up again, I blurt out, “I don’t want to get used to you if you’re not planning on sticking around.”
His eyes meet mine instantly. “What?”
I swallow. “I mean, you keep showing up. And I keep... letting you. And I know I’m not exactly easy. I say the wrong thing, or shut down, or make jokes at wildly inappropriate times—”
“You mean like right now?” he says, his voice gentle.
I laugh, nervous and dry. “Yeah. Like now.”
There’s a long pause. I look down at my hands. I hate this feeling—raw, exposed, too honest—but I can’t stop.
“I think I’m in love with you,” I say very quietly. “Actually, no. Not think. I am in love with you.”
Cole exhales like he’s been holding his breath for days.
He pushes off the counter and closes the space between us, hands settling lightly on my waist.
“I’ve been waiting for you to say that,” he murmurs, “so I wouldn’t screw it up by saying it first.”
I blink up at him. “You—”
“I love you, too,” he says, firm and sure. “Have for a while.”
His hands slide up my back, and he leans in, forehead against mine. I breathe him in—soap, hand sanitizer, and something that’s just him—and I feel it everywhere.
The morgue hums around us. The smell of antiseptic. The buzz of old lights. The quiet weight of everything I thought I couldn’t have.
And somehow, this—this—is the place I fall in love.
Leave it to me.
I pull back an inch. “You just told me you love me in a room with three dead bodies.”
He grins. “And you told me you love me while holding a gallbladder.”
We both laugh, and somehow, it feels like the most romantic thing that’s ever happened.