Page 112 of Keepsakes and Kismet

I wince at the frustration radiating off him. Another day at work, another mood killed.

“It’ll take me about an hour to complete the inspection, depending on what I find when I look around.”

He sighs. “It’s a big night for us. We’re featuring live music for the first time and want as little disruption as possible for the staff and customers. We’ll be very busy in about an hour during primetime.”

“I understand. Why don’t I do a Front of House inspection as quickly as possible before it gets busier? That way, I’ll be hidden away from guests in the kitchen for the remainder.”

Nico nods begrudgingly. “Thank you for understanding.”

I make my way around the dining area pretty quickly, checking the floors, walls, and ceilings to make sure that they’re in good condition. I don’t note any sticky residue or build up. Next, I evaluate the corners for evidence of pests, then pick up the condiments on tables without guests, ensuring they’re properly labeled and not expired.

After finishing the Front of House, I head back to the kitchen. This part always takes longer, but I usually find some sense of satisfaction in checking off the items on my list. Not today, though. Today, every item checked feels like a chore.

The kitchen inspection takes longer than I thought; probably because the image in my head of a gorgeous blonde woman is slowing me down. I release a heavy sigh and brush some crumbs off my khakis before meeting the manager in his office for a debrief session.

I glance at my checklist. “All right, Nico. No critical violations today. I did note a few infractions, though. You have a guy back there who needs to wear a hair restraint, and the pickled jalapeños in the refrigerator are labeled incorrectly. Both should be easy fixes.”

His shoulders relax. “Thank you, Inspector.”

“Anytime. I know how busy you are, so I’ll see myself out. Have a good night.”

As I close his office door behind me, the sounds of the mariachi band fill the space. Each of the vocalists holds an instrument, be it a guitar, trumpet, or violin. The group matches in their black suits and silver belt buckles. Their harmonies are rich, and I find myself humming along to the melody.

No one is gathered too closely to the stage, except for a woman in a one-shouldered red dress near the front, clapping along to the music. She’s moving her feet to the tune, almost looking like she might start full-on dancing. Her hair is long and blonde, just like my Pey.

Hold on.

That woman is my Pey.

My heartbeat takes off, faster than the tempo of the music, as I stare at my girlfriend. The sway of her hips, her exposed shoulder, the way the disco ball light reflects off her hair, giving it a sparkle effect.

The song stops, and she turns around. As if we’re opposite in polarity, our eyes snap to one another. I wave, and she… glares at me. In an adorable way.

I try to school the grin that plays at my lips to match her serious energy, but it’s nearly impossible, since smiling is my natural reflex when I see her.

Peyton marches over, and—wow. She looks just as beautiful when she’s annoyed with me as she does when she’s pleased. Up close, I notice the gold beading on her red dress and how it gathers around her waist.

She huffs. “Hello, Inspector.”

I grin. “You stalking me, Pey?”

“Stop smiling. I’m annoyed with you.”

“I know, honey. Can I just say really quick, though—before you rightfully continue being mad at me—that I’m very sorry, and I’ve missed you? Also, I need to tell you something.”

Her eyebrows furrow in the cutest way. “What do you want to tell me, Callum? That you can’t give me what I deserve or something? Save it.” Peyton crosses her arms. “You shouldn’t have pushed me away. You should’ve let me explain.”

“I know. And I want to talk about that more. But first, I wanted to tell you that I’m in⁠—”

A loud whistle slices through the air, and I jump like I’m being attacked. “The fuck⁠—”

We both turn to the side, and that’s when I realize the Mariachi band has traveled directly next to Peyton and me. The trumpets start blaring, and it’s beautiful, but it’s so fucking loud, and I’m trying to tell her that I’m in love with her in the middle of this Mexican restaurant.

Peyton shouts over the music. “THAT YOU’RE WHAT?”

“THAT I’M IN LOVE WITH YOU!” I yell back.

“BAMBA, BAMBA! BAMBA, BAMBA! BAMBA BAM…” The vocalists are absolutely rocking “La Bamba” right now, and any other time I’d be clapping to the rhythm, but it’s just not⁠—