Free Heartbreak Cake by Cindy Arora Page B

the better part of the evening giving me strategy tips on dealing with Valentina.
I shuffle over to my kitchen table while munching on a piece of celery and hit the envelope icon that has 2 unread messages listed.
Lunch was fun and unexpected. How’d you like to be my date for the dinner at Crystal Cove tomorrow night? I know its last minute and I should probably call and ask, but I’m in the middle of finishing up dinner and didn’t want to wait until it was too late. What do you think? Do you have any free time for a little fun?
Noah Cavatelli. I’m surprised and flattered.
We were flirty today, no doubt about it, but restaurant people can be that way—it’s what one does to get through a shift. You eat too many warm dinner rolls to stave off the hunger and you flirt with your coworkers mercilessly. None of it can mean a thing.
But I could use some fun. Noah may just be the perfect antidote to my broken heart. He’s fun, flirty, a talented chef, and just the right amount of carefree bad boy to make things interesting.
Maybe my mother was right. “ Otro clavo saca otro clavo.” One nail takes out another nail. Or as Rebecca has been telling me since we were eighteen, “The best way to get over someone, is to get under someone new.”
I’d love it, I reply.
Wonderful, look forward to having you as my date. Everyone will be envious.
Isn’t he sweet?
My phone vibrates to remind me I still have a pending unread message, which I click to find two words. Two words that always pull me back in for more.
Miss You.
     

Chapter 9
     
     
     
“What is this fashion statement?
Rebecca and I are in front of the tamale man at the Long Beach Farmer’s Market for a morning chili verde run. I’m wearing my chef whites on my way to the bakery and Rebecca looks like the portrait of an athlete on her way to eternal milfdom. Her curly red hair is thrown into a messy ponytail, long toned legs peek out of tiny running shorts, and a body-hugging orange tank top makes her green eyes pop.
But for all of her beauty, I can’t stop staring at her feet. “It’s the closest I can get to running barefoot, which is better for my form,” Rebecca says while she shuffles her neon green five-fingered running shoes that make her look like Kermit the Frog. “Grow up! I get the best work out with these shoes.”
“They look like you have gloves on your feet. I can see your toes,” I snicker.
“Keep it up and I’m going to take my tamale and go home.”
“You’re still beautiful, despite your comical shoe choice. Look, even Maggie is giving Suri Cruise a run for her money.”
Maggie sits reclined in her three-thousand-dollar, state- of-the-art jogging buggy and gives me a charming smile from beneath her floppy sunhat.
“Two green chili tamales and two watermelon agua frescas.” I hand a ten dollar bill to the tamale man, who stares at Rebecca’s feet. He gives me a wink and we both quietly titter.
“Doesn’t Josh run this market?” Rebecca crinkles her nose as if she just smelled something bad.
“He helped start it, but he’s only here on Tuesdays, not Saturdays.”
“Glad to see you’re still tracking his schedule,” she says dryly, giving me a pointed stare.
“Listen, all I want is to have a breakfast tamale with my best friend and meet with Clifford, the apple farmer,” I say lightly. “Nothing more, I promise. So do you think you can you ease up on being so harsh? It’s not helpful.”
“Sorry,” she says glumly and then we both stand there awkwardly, neither one of us comfortable with the subject.
“Who’s Clifford? You got a hot date or something?” Rebecca asks gently.
“If you mean a hot date with a crate of Ginger Golds for empanadas I am making for Stephanie’s dessert bar, then yes. These apples are crisp, tart and roll-your-eyes sublime.”
“You’re doing it.” Rebecca sing songs. “Doing what?”
“Talking about produce like its porn.”
We both laugh, and the tension between us eases enough that I