The Dirt on Ninth Grave(71)

I strode to work without feeling the cold, I was so mad. Also, I was layered out the ass, a fact that became supremely evident when I had to de-layer in the storeroom.



When I'd first walked in through the back door, I was met with the scent of heaven. Literally. One word hit me. A word I may or may not have worshiped in my previous life. A word that meant the difference between a life filled with meaning and joy and a life vexed with doldrums and thoughts of suicide.



Chile.



Having shed most of my outer coating, I started toward the prep station to get the coffee going. Cookie wasn't in yet or it would already be done.



As I passed, Reyes stepped out of the kitchen and settled his weight against the doorjamb, his lean body holding the swinging door back.



I stiffened and glanced at him only because it would have been more awkward not to.



He was wiping his hands on a towel. "Feeling suicidal today?" he asked, anger shimmering in his eyes.



"Maybe." Seriously, I had the best comebacks.



"At least I can remember my name."



I inhaled, appalled that he would use retrograde amnesia to score such a cheap shot. I stepped closer. "Oh, yeah? At least I'm human." I probably should have taken note of our surroundings before saying something like that, but he didn't seem to care.



We were in the middle of a bona fide staredown when he reached into the kitchen and handed me a plate. "Merry Christmas."



He'd made eggs and enchiladas, with both red and green chile. Christmas style. My mouth flooded so fast, I almost drooled.



"Thank you," I said, feeling sheepish.



"Oh, and this, too." He reached back in and handed me a steak knife.



I frowned. I didn't need a knife to eat enchiladas.



"In case you want to finish what you started last night."



"It's perfect," I said, snatching the knife out of his hand. Another badass comeback for the record books. 



Actually, I did want to finish what I'd started last night. In the worst way possible.



I was in love. I didn't realize just how much until thirty seconds ago. I knew it the minute my eyes landed on him. Even angry and hurt and volatile, he liquefied my bones and infused my heart with warmth and life and a sense of security. He was like a sanctuary. Like shelter from a storm. I knew, beyond anything known and not known, beyond the future and the past, that I could count on this being, on this man, to be there for me.



It was the whole rote memory thing. I'd woken up in that alley knowing how to talk. How to walk. How to search the Internet. And I woke up in love. It was ingrained in my DNA. I loved Reyes Farrow. I craved him, and there was nothing I could do about it.



This went beyond the fact that he'd saved my life. Then again, he did. He couldn't be evil. That angel had every intention of dismembering me. Reyes  –  and the details were still a bit hazy  –  fought it off. Somehow he fought a celestial being. For me. Was even wounded in the process.



But angels weren't evil either. Maybe it wasn't as simple as good and evil. Maybe there were an infinite number of grays in between.



It didn't matter. Nothing else mattered. What he was. Where he was from. How he freaking turned into smoke, because damn. He was mine, fire, smoke, and all. I staked my claim right then and there.



"Sorry I'm la-"



Cookie had rushed in like a frozen tornado but stopped short when she saw Reyes and me. She cleared her throat and walked to the storeroom to de-cloak.



I took my prizes and continued to the drinks station to start the coffee, but not before sampling a bite. When Cookie walked up, I groaned aloud and took another bite.



"Is that what I think it is?"



"If you think it's authentic enchiladas, then yes."



"I caught a whiff when I walked in, but I thought I was dreaming."



"Here you go." Reyes handed Cookie a plate as well through the pass-out window.



She sucked in a soft breath and took the plate as if it were a delicate treasure. And so the morning passed with the two of us sampling Reyes's cooking  –  when he wasn't looking, of course  –  and waiting on tables. But only because we'd get fired if we didn't.



Mr. P and the dead stripper came in. Ordered the usual. Garrett came in. Ordered the usual. Osh came in. Ordered off the menu, thus the usual. And a plethora of women filled up every other seat we had. The words morning rush were taking on a whole new meaning. Reyes might have been good for business, but I had blisters from trying to outrun the headless horseman last night and then running all the way home after the Reyes incident. And now they throbbed like the fires of a thousand suns. Still, like Dixie had said, dude could cook. I could forgive a few blisters if it meant a steady supply of chile et al.