Second Chance for the Single Dad Read online

  Facing him with drips of sweat running into her eyes meant he was just a blurry mass. But that was okay. Being subjected to the sight enough times already, she could easily conjure up a vision of her boss: bulbous, red-veined nose, flabby jowls, thin lips twisting with disapproval and those beady eyes looking her up and down in a way that made her skin crawl. Sweat trickled between her shoulder blades, causing an itch so intense it was almost painful. It just had to be unseasonably warm on the weekend she’d agreed to dress up in layers of foam and plastic for the “mobile Mexican cantina’s” grand opening. He’d booked her for the following five weekends, as well. Lucky for Bobby, though, because sunshine on the Oregon Coast meant tourists were scuttling around like ants at a picnic. With similarly appointed appetites. Even for bad tacos.

  “What does that say?” Bobby pointed.

  Camile blinked and squinted at the words stenciled on the side of the taco truck. “Uh, the Dancing Taco?”

  “That’s right, chica,” he answered testily. “And you are my dancing taco.”

  “Bobby, I’ve been dancing around for five hours. I only stopped just now to get a drink of water.”

  “Dancing is what I’m paying you good money for, not drinkin’.” This last declaration seemed to insinuate that she’d been sneaking tequila shots inside her suit or something.

  Not for the first time, Camile was glad Bobby couldn’t see her glaring face. She was pretty sure she would have been fired by now. She wouldn’t exactly call what he was paying her “good money,” but it was easy money. Normally. And she needed it. Badly.

  “I appreciate your generosity. But trust me, it’s important to stay hydrated. It’s very hot out here, and this suit isn’t well ventilated. Last weekend, I had a little episode because I didn’t drink enough water.” She also hadn’t eaten breakfast. Or lunch. The combination had led to her passing out on the sidewalk outside a pet store while wearing a dog costume. Resulting in an astronomical hospital bill and only a partial paycheck with which to pay said bill.

  “Hey, can it! Customers will hear you whining. It’s hot in my cantina, too, babe.” He hitched a thumb toward the truck. “But you know what I’m doing? I’m cooking up tacos while you’re standing around out here twiddling your thumbs. Now get to shaking that pretty little caboose.”

  Camile liked to believe she was a tolerant individual. No, she knew she was. Her mishmash of part-time jobs proved it. She was tough, too. And resilient. Five years of working and paying her own way through college and graduate school supported that fact. Her recent thesis disaster demonstrated that she could roll with the most brutal of punches. That was putting it mildly. The thesis episode had knocked her out cold, and still, she’d managed to get up and shake it off. The phrase had become her personal theme song and mantra. But enough was enough. She wondered if it would be possible later to write off her impending reaction to heatstroke and dehydration?

  “Okay, Bobby, first of all, don’t call me chica. Or babe. And I am not your taco. Commenting or referencing my caboose in any manner is not appropriate. And second, how can you be making tacos when you’re standing out here complaining about me every other five seconds? Is there a tortilla in your pocket? Or maybe you’ve got beans stashed in that ridiculous hat you’re wearing?” Bobby was immensely proud of his taco-shaped hat. She should have had a clue as to how the day was going to proceed when she’d first shown up, and he’d referred to himself as “Chief Taco-Head.”

  Bobby’s edges might be blurred, but she could see well enough to make out the deep red shade of his cheeks, now a close match to the color of the “spicy fuego sauce” he proudly served on the side of every take-out order. She knew for a fact it was nothing but ketchup and cayenne pepper.

  His tone dipped low and venomous. “What did you say to me?”

  “You heard me, you lazy, ignorant, sexist windbag. From where I’m standing, it looks like Howard is doing the taco making.” Camile gestured at the truck where the teenage Howard had been sweating over the grill all day while being subjected to both Bobby’s ugly reproach and his smelly proximity. In many ways, the taco suit was probably preferable. She drew her arms inside the suit’s narrow armholes and set about extricating herself from the confines of her fiery inferno. “But just in case, I’ll increase the volume and the clarity in the way you coached me to do earlier.” Camile shouted, “You’re mean, Bobby. And disrespectful and unfair and vile, and your tacos taste like something the ocean vomited up at high tide. No offense, Howard. I know this is just a crap job to you, too.”

  “Uh, none taken,” she heard a cheerful-sounding Howard reply. “I hear ya. I told him not to mix these weird oats and stuff in with the meat.”

  Grateful for her small frame and the strength and flexibility that years of dance had instilled, she shimmied the suit upward until it hovered above her head. The taco slowly tipped sideways. Camile gave a little shove, and it hit the sidewalk with a surprisingly loud thwack, frightening a curious dog who let out a bark and scuttled sideways. Camile went to comfort the little guy, and that was when she realized they’d attracted an audience. A fairly good-sized one, too. With her limited visibility and furious, intent focus on Bobby, she hadn’t noticed.

  “Shut your stupid piehole, Howard!” Bobby bellowed.

  Camile whirled around and pointed at him. “Don’t talk to him like that! Bobby, you’re just proving my assertion, can you not see that?”

  “Yeah? Well, you’re fired.”

  “Dang,” she retorted sarcastically. “Are you sure? Because I was desperately hoping for a reference. Taco dancing is just the thing I’ve been hoping for to round out my résumé. I was counting on The Royal Ballet hiring me upon your recommendation.”

  Bobby was apparently even dumber than she realized. “Ha,” he sputtered. “Not a chance.”

  Camile looked toward the truck, where a wide-eyed and red-faced Howard appeared to be desperately trying to stifle a laugh. “Howard, I know for a fact Nina Marie’s Berries & Cream is hiring. You know, the old Quinley berry farm?” At Howard’s enthusiastic nod, she went on, “Three dollars an hour above minimum wage, more if you get cleared to make deliveries. Head out there now and tell the owner that I sent you. Her name is Nina.” Camile knew this because Nina was her oldest sister. She’d offered Camile the job again that morning, but Camile didn’t want to work for her big sister for reasons that Howard wouldn’t have to grapple with.

  “Seriously? Awesome! Thanks so much, Camile. Hey, Bobby, I quit.” Howard’s apron sailed through the order window on the broad side of the truck and landed in a heap at Bobby’s feet.

  Camile shot Bobby a satisfied grin, pivoted gracefully and took off down the boardwalk. “Adios, Chief Taco-Head,” she called with a wave over her shoulder. Cheers and loud applause followed in her wake. Checking her watch, she saw that she now had plenty of time to go home, rehydrate and shower away the caked-on layers of taco-scented sweat before she met her sisters and some friends for dinner. She briefly considered a nap, except she knew that if she lay down, she wouldn’t want to get up again until morning.

  Once inside her ancient, air conditioner–less, semireliable car, she rolled the windows down, guzzled the contents of her insulated water bottle and dug her phone out of her bag. She texted Nina about Howard. There was a message from her other sister Aubrey, which she’d been expecting, with details of the evening’s dinner outing. Camile opened the message. A combination of amusement and disbelief stirred inside her as she stared at the words: 7:00 p.m. at La Playa Bonita. It’s that new Mexican place in Remington! It’s taco night! Fun, right? I can pick you up if you want?

  “Tacos, seriously?” she whispered. So much for washing her latest bad job experience down the drain. Letting her head fall to the steering wheel, Camile had to laugh. She had to. It was either that or cry.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “OH, LOOK! There’s Harper and Kyle,” Anne chirped brightly, pointing across the restaurant. “This is going to be super fun. I hope the salsa is good. You know how salsa can make or break the entire Mexican food experience for me.” Hooking an arm around Rhys’s elbow, she urged him forward.

  Rhys didn’t budge. Anne’s overly enthusiastic tone was chiming in his brain like a warning bell. Yet another sound to synthesize with the already-grating restaurant noises scraping against the inside of his skull. Excessive was the word that came to mind as he surveyed La Playa Bonita’s interior. The wall to his left sported a mural of jungle animals scattered among a canopy of foliage. Cheeky monkeys swung from vines and a snake coiled around a tree limb. A toucan-shaped piñata hung from the ceiling above. Along the far wall, fish and sea creatures frolicked against a background of bright blue. It was there, amid the equally eye-catchingly bright ocean, that Rhys spotted Kyle and Harper seated at a large table. Several tables, technically, pushed together end to end. Enough to seat the—Rhys quickly counted—eight other people congregated there. There were still empty seats, as well.

  Allowing himself a moment to process the situation, he attempted to adjust to the uncomfortable acceleration of his pulse and accompanying pressure building smack-dab in the center of his chest. Despite his distress, he kept his tone level. “I thought you said we were having dinner with Kyle and Harper and a few of their friends.”

  “We are,” Anne said, only a little less brightly.

  “Eight is not a few.”

  “Close enough.”

  “Hardly. In this context, eight is much closer to numerous, several, or even a bunch than a few.”

  Anne muttered something under her breath while reaching out with one hand to grip his wrist lightly. “Come here,” she said, pulling him sideway
s behind a large, square pillar. In a low voice, she added, “See what you did right there? Don’t do that at dinner, okay? We’re trying to get people to like you.”

  “Don’t do what?”

  “Don’t be...argumentative.”

  Rhys stared at her, perplexed. “I’m never argumentative.”

  “Yes. You are. I said there were a few other people and you corrected me.”

  “Well, you were wrong.”

  “Rhys!” she hissed. “You’re arguing with me right now.”

  “No, I’m not. I’m simply pointing out an indisputable fact.”

  Anne scowled up at him. “It comes across as disagreeable. I know that you know what I’m talking about.”

  He did. It was not the first time she’d pointed out this tendency of his. Nor was she the first person to do so. But it was also inaccurate. “Correcting misinformation is not arguing.”

  “Rhys, this desire you have to be right all the time is annoying. It rubs people the wrong way.”

  It wasn’t that he wanted to be right all the time. Not at all. He simply couldn’t abide anything other than accuracy. And the truth. He shrugged a shoulder. “People should get their facts straight before they speak.”

  Expression earnest, her eyes searched his for a few seconds before she gave her head a little shake. “Sometimes I think you truly do not care what people think about you.”

  Rhys managed a small smile at that. “Then sometimes you would be correct.”

  * * *

  CAMILE SAT WITH her back toward the wall, her position allowing her a view of a large section of the restaurant. She predicted good things for the eatery’s future based on the atmosphere the owners had created. The decor was jungle-tropical themed—fun and festive and inviting. The upbeat Latin pop music wasn’t too loud and called to mind soft sand and warm beaches. She’d just dipped another chip into the excellent salsa which, in her opinion, was another huge indicator of the establishment’s potential success, when she noticed a striking couple standing across the room.

  Specifically, what she noticed first was the woman’s gorgeous red hair. A quick assessment revealed that the rest of her was equally as pretty. Her attention shifted to the man standing by her side. Causing her heart to slam sideways against her rib cage. Hard.

  No... It couldn’t be, could it?

  Morbid curiosity overrode her latent humiliation and had her squinting for a better look. The chip in her hand remained suspended in midair between the salsa bowl and her mouth, as she realized that his hair drew attention, too. Was that irony? She imagined it like a slapstick skit, two beautiful, stunning-haired people triggering double takes wherever they went. Unfortunately, it wasn’t funny in this case. Not at all. Because it helped confirm his identity.

  Rhys McGrath’s hair wasn’t red, but it was the most striking shade of blond. About a hundred different sun-kissed shades all woven together and falling nearly to his shoulders in thick golden waves. She’d recognize that hair anywhere because when she’d first laid eyes on it, on him, she’d been struck with a series of thoughts. The first was that he looked like a surfer, which was silly because she’d never actually known any surfers. But she was pretty sure they would look like him. If he’d been wearing board shorts instead of an expensive suit. The second had been less of a thought and more of a desire. Her fingers had tingled from wanting to run them through those loose, luxurious curls. She just knew they would feel all velvety soft. The third was that a guy who’d not only been blessed with such beautiful hair but also wore it in that laid-back, hip kind of style would probably have a personality to match.

  Exhilaration had left her almost giddy as she’d slid into the seat across from him in the swanky downtown Portland restaurant for what felt like a truly promising blind date with a brilliant engineer. And for a brief moment, she’d believed that Rhys McGrath was exactly the kind of beach-bum-meets-handsome-professor she’d pegged him for.

  How wrong she’d been.

  That was when the right-here-right-now Rhys McGrath turned and looked in her direction. A rush of adrenaline surged through her bloodstream, prickling her skin and scattering her thoughts. Did he recognize her? What should she do? Pretend not to recognize him? Hide? One thing she would not do was give him the satisfaction of knowing how badly he’d humiliated her. That meant hiding was out. She didn’t like that option anyway; Camile was not a hider by nature. She could throw her margarita in his face. Tempting. But a bit too clichéd for her, and too overt. Drink tossing would suggest anger on her part. Was she angry? Yes, of course, she was. No one deserved to be treated the way he’d treated her. Many times, she’d fantasized about tracking him down and giving him a piece of her mind. And yet, she hadn’t wanted to humiliate herself further. Just like she didn’t want to do so now. It had happened a long time ago. She was over it. Ideally, she’d want him to think that it hadn’t bothered her in the first place. So her approach should probably reside somewhere in the middle of the two extremes. More of a cold-shouldered recognition.

  Bracing herself, she prepared to meet the intensity of those blue eyes. Yep, she remembered those, too. Because for the brief time they’d been focused on her—over the appetizer he’d ordered and left untouched—she’d felt interesting and listened to and attractive and... And then he’d bolted like a cowardly jackal. Why did this still bother her?

  He shifted back toward his companion, and Camile realized that maybe he hadn’t been looking at her, per se, but just gazing in her general direction. From the look of their heated conversation, he had other things on his mind. Camile exhaled the breath she’d been holding and forced fresh air into her lungs. No reason to think that he’d even noticed her, let alone recognized her. The date had been a long-ago occurrence that was short in duration; two years ago and twenty-three minutes long, respectively. She’d grown her hair out since then, changed the color as she tended to do. On the date, she’d worn it down and curled. There’d been makeup, a fancy dress and no glasses. Pretty much the opposite of how she looked this evening.

  “Camile?” Her sister Nina’s voice broke through her reverie. “Sweetie, are you okay?”

  “What?” she answered, slow-blinking in Nina’s general vicinity.

  “Are you all right? I lost you there for a minute. You’re a little pale. Is something wrong with the salsa?”

  Camile glanced down at the chip still held rigidly in her fingers. Her mouth was way too dry to eat it now. With her other hand, she reached for her margarita and took a sip. She ate the chip, washing it down with another sip. Which she then chased with a nice healthy gulp.

  “Yes. No. Sorry. Salsa is yummy. I’m fine. Just a little tired. Long day.”

  Nina shifted her tone to an exaggeratedly loud whisper. “You’re not going to pass out again, are you?”

  Camile gaped at her eldest sister before letting out a groan of frustration. Middle sister, Aubrey, who was seated on the opposite side of the table and had been engaging in conversation with her friend and former Coast Guard teammate Jay, swiveled toward them.

  Like a lighthouse beacon, Aubrey homed in on Nina. “Passed out? And what do you mean, again?” She peered at Nina and then Camile before demanding, “What is she talking about, Camile? When did you pass out?”

  Sighing, Camile gave her head a little shake. She frowned at Nina. “I thought we agreed we weren’t going to say anything. How is this not telling Aubrey?”

  “I didn’t tell her. She eavesdropped.” Nina added an innocent shrug as if this were a valid explanation for her obvious intent to let Aubrey know about the episode.