CHAPTER THREE
I slide through the door fifteen minutes late into a room that smells of grilled meat and salsa. The booths are carved in scenes of the Mexican countryside.
“Hello,” a young woman with an apron over a white dress shirt says. “Table for one?”
My stomach thrills as I admit, “Actually I’m meeting someone, and I bet he’s already here. Luke Holland?”
“Sorry, I just clocked in. I’m not sure. Do you see him?”
I peek into the dim interior, not sure if I do. What if he changed his mind? What if he’s not coming? What if he got annoyed at my tardiness and left?
“Elisa?”
I close my eyes. There’s that voice. Smooth and deep. Mellow. Friendly. It melts me.
I turn to the left to see him tucked into a booth in the corner, out of the flow of foot traffic toward the bar and the bathroo
