Chapter 62

From his spot by the stove, Joaquin sportingly fed him his line. “After which two?”

“You and Dickie, of course.”

Joaquin’s crepes were golden, weightless, and not even close to terrible. His tortillas were warm and soft, his beans zesty and creamy, and he made a mean stovetop espresso. He had an eye for perfect produce, squeezed his own orange juice, and obviously knew the best bakery in town. Of course, Colin wanted to hoard all the breakfast—if I had a guy like Joaquin cooking for me, I’d never get up from the table.

Eventually I did, though, what with Joaquin being my enemy and all. After about my eleventh crepe. And three tortillas crammed with cheese and beans and potatoes and eggs. And after wrapping a handful of orejitos in a cloth napkin to take with me, I managed to hoist myself up from behind the buffet, help myself to a to-go mug of his amazing coffee, and follow my engorged breakfast belly from the kitchen, tossing Joaquin a simple-if-sincere, “Thank you.”