Chapter Four
Alma shuddered. The critic from the other week had been a no-show. But she heard a rumor from another restaurant owner who knew him that he had said he would stop by tonight.
She clasped her hands and said a prayer.
As badly as she wanted him to come in, one negative review could be all it took for her success to disappear.
That was why she needed tonight to go well—so the reviewer from the Chronicle didn’t blow her up on socials, and not in a good way.
A sharp pain in her arm brought her back to the moment. She shot her brother a dirty look. “Carlos, what was that for?” He had bailed her out tonight when one of her bartenders called out sick.
“You were gazing out at the bay, like some newbie tourist. You okay?”
A smile spread across her lips. “Never better.”
Alma focused. She went behind the tall wood-carved bar and straightened the tequila bottles.
She loved the colors and designs of the containers—brightly colored, some were even hand-painted.
Her favorite bottle was a white ceramic one painted with intricate blue leaves.
The shape of the bottle resembled the curves of a woman, and the liquor itself was just as robust, just as refined—truly the intersection of quality and art.
She signaled her bar manager, Lupe, to turn the music on, to which Lupe quickly obliged. The melodic sounds of one of her favorite Spanish ballads filled the air; the singer’s deep baritone voice almost as intoxicating as the liquor in the place.
Almost.
A waft from the kitchen danced through her nostrils.
Though this was a tequila bar, Mezcalifornia was known for its happy hour.
They served mostly the usual fare that you would expect—small carnitas street tacos, fresh-charred corn dressed with a tangy garlic sauce and garnished with cotija cheese, mini ahi tostadas, and of course, guacamole.
She hadn’t wanted a typical sit-down restaurant with gourmet food and a wine list. Been there, done that.
No. She wanted a vibe. A destination. An experience.
She checked on the rest of the workers and made sure the bartenders were ready to rumble.
Carlos happily milled around the bar, helping out where he could.
He sliced limes like a ninja, ground various salt and sugar mixtures, which he would use to rim the margarita glasses, and pulled sage leaves off the vine for garnishes.
Her phone buzzed: It was five o’clock. Time to let in the crowds. And hope the critic showed up and loved the place.
Alma straightened her black bustier, tossed her hair so it framed her bare shoulders, and went to the door. The line wrapped around the ferry dock.
The first couple she let in was at least in their seventies, though the woman looked fantastic. Was she Mexican? With her light skin and jet-black hair, Alma couldn’t be certain. The couple held hands.
“Table for two.”
“Of course. Right this way.”
The gentleman pulled out the seat for his companion. Alma’s chest filled with warmth. It was so wonderful to see people who were still in love, like her parents were. It was possible.
A bunch of tech bros followed in after them as well as a bachelorette party. The men circled the women like sharks hunting surfers. Wow, what a perfect match between those two groups. Alma escorted both parties to the upper deck.
“Would you like to do a tequila tasting?” she asked the group of women. “We have a tequila flight where you can try blanco, reposado, joven, anejo, and extra anejo. I can teach you the different ways to imbibe them.”
The lady with the bridal veil shook her head. “Nah. I’ll just order a round of your watermelon margaritas.”
Alma smiled. “Good choice. Coming right up.”
She didn’t blame the girls for picking something fruity and fun, a drink that hid the pureness of the tequila she had handpicked for the bar.
Sometimes, she resigned herself to the fact that she was fighting a losing battle.
Not everyone actually cared about the differences in the tequilas like she did.
Half the people came to her bar to get drunk and have a good time, and the other half usually used it as a pre- or endgame.
She knew her place in this town and was just grateful for the opportunity.
But she had learned so much about her beloved liquor that she wanted to share her knowledge with anyone who would listen.
The history of tequila was downright fascinating.
She’d spent months working alongside agave farmers, learning everything about how they harvest the plants.
Fell in love with the stories of the women artisans who defied cultural norms to start their own brands.
Studied glassmaking with the bottlers and learned how important the containers were to preserve the taste of the liquor.
She ran downstairs to get started on the drinks for the ladies and slipped behind the bar. She glanced at Carlos, whose face contorted.
“Did a spider bite you?”
He shook his head but remained silent. She followed his gaze out to the deck, but she could see nothing and no one of interest. Definitely no sign of the critic.
She ignored Carlos and went back to preparing the bar.
His eyes remained glued toward the water.
“I’ll be right back.”
Carlos darted to the end of the restaurant—peering outside. His attention then turned toward the waiting area.
After a few moments, he returned to the bar.
She tugged on his sleeve. “Carlos—what’s going on with you? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Maybe I have.” He turned to his sister and lowered his voice. “Don’t freak out, but I swear I just saw Jaime milling around outside.”
She gulped. Jaime? No way. It wasn’t possible. He didn’t live around here, and he had cut off all communication.
“Jaime? My Jaime?” She winced when those words came out of her mouth. He was no longer her Jaime, and honestly, it was doubtful that he had ever been truly hers.
But she had been his.
And she hated to admit it, but in some ways, she still was.
She shook off the thought.
“Yeah. It sure looked like him.”
No. No way. “Doubtful. He has never reached out and contacted me. Ever. I doubt he even knows this is my place. Only way he would show up was if he was part of some event here, but I have no media bookings for the night. They wouldn’t be filming, so I doubt he’d come.”
Did he know she owned the place? He was way too cool, too cocky to friend or even follow her on social media. Or maybe he just happened to be in town, walking along the water, and had no idea she was here.
But his best friend Santi knew where she worked. And though they still saw each other around town and at different events, Santi never mentioned Jaime. Neither did Alma. She just couldn’t believe that Santi would set her up—he was cooler than that.
“Yeah, I don’t know about all that. But I know what he looks like. And I swear that was him.”
Shivers ran through her. Impossible. After all this time, he couldn’t be in her town.
Her turn to investigate. “I’ll be right back.”
She scanned the place for Jaime. First skulking around the bar like a cat, then dashing upstairs to look on the second floor.
Nada. No sign of him. And she would be able to see him if he was there.
Plus, she would’ve noticed him coming through the door.
She remembered every inch of his shiny black hair, his chiseled face, his muscular body, his hard cock that had filled her with such unbelievable pleasure.
Ah—stop! How long had it been? Alma needed to get laid. Maybe a one-night stand with a sexy tech bro or the hot ferry captain could banish fine-ass Jaime from her mind forever.
Though it was super doubtful.
After scouring the place for a sighting as if Jaime was some reclusive cryptid, like a Chupacabra, she went back behind the bar. She had to finish making those drinks for the upstairs party.
She placed her hand on Carlos’s shoulder. “You’re seeing things for sure. Even if he was outside, he’s definitely not in this building. And why on earth would he be here?”
Carlos shrugged. “Forget it. He wouldn’t be. Pretend I said nothing.” He paused and looked into her eyes. “Sorry I even mentioned him.”
“Thanks.” She was relieved her ex wasn’t there. Although she had to admit, she found it a little strange, the way she’d never heard from him again after he dumped her. Wasn’t he curious about her?
Probably not. If he was, he would’ve reached out. He was all over social media. Fine as ever. She didn’t contact him because she didn’t want to be pathetic. He was the one who’d dumped her. How could he have ended it and never looked back?
It was almost cruel. Did he never care about her? That was impossible—they were so deeply in love.
Once.
A lifetime ago.
Well, only three years ago. But she had been a totally different person back then.
She turned around and went back to making the drinks.
Her hand clutched the neck of one of her beloved bottles of tequila—it resembled a Day of the Dead Catrina.
A sharp pain radiated through her arm. Again. She slapped her brother’s hand away. “Dammit, Carlos! Stop pinching me.”
His voice lowered. “Alma—turn around.”
She slowly pivoted on her foot.
Standing in front of the bar, his shiny black bangs skimming his eyebrows, with a big smile flashing his dimples, was Jaime Montez.
Fuck.
And why was he hotter than hell?
His boyish frame had filled out and his ripped body was visible through his V-neck T-shirt. Those arms were so muscular! Though now they were decorated with tattoos. God, what would it be like to see this man naked, one more time.
Fine, twice. Three times tops.
As she stood there stunned, his eyes raked up and down her body.
“Hey, Alma. Nice to see you again.”