Page 22 of Tito

His responses were sincere, and without the telltale ticks of an expressed lie. He was either a great liar, or he was telling the truth. I gave a nod of approval. “I’ll accept that.”

He relaxed against the back of his chair and rested his forearms on the worn wooden armrests. “How did you come about your imagination naturally?”

Listening to my father’s theories regarding his cases while we ate dinner fed my imagination as a child. Admitting that to Tito wasn’t high on my to-do list. In my early years of dating, my father had managed to scare away several of my potential boyfriends. Finding out I was the daughter of a cop seemed to make men uneasy, regardless of their reluctance to delve into criminal activity.

Wishing he hadn’t asked, I reached for my water glass. “I grew up with a parent who was always putting together scenarios that were based on theory instead of fact. My exposure to him and his ideas caused my imagination to blossom.”

“Mother or father?” he asked.

“Father.”

“What was his profession?”

“A detective.”

“Currently or retired?”

“Currently.”

He feigned indifference, but his flushing face gave away his true feelings. He took a drink of water and struggled to swallow it. “Oh, really?”

I wasn’t prepared to allow my father’s career choice to become the wedge driven between me and the one-night stand sitting across from me.

“Yeah,” I said. “As far as cops go, he’s pretty cool, though.”

He looked away. “Is he?”

I’d hoped for a light dinner followed by a heavy dose of dick. His interest in me was fading and fading fast. Hell, I’d be lucky to finish my glass of water and get a goodnight hug. I needed to recover and do so quickly.

“He’s employed by the Sheriff’s department, but he specializes in organized crime,” I explained. “He works hand-in-hand with the DEA, ATF, and FBI, trying to catch people who operate criminal enterprises. Gangs and stuff. Nothing you need to worry about.”

All the color drained from his face. “Sounds like interesting stuff.”

“Welcome to Sandy’s,” a weathered voice said from behind me. “Have you had time to look over the menus?”

I glanced over my shoulder. My grandmother’s doppelganger tapped the tip of a mangled golf pencil against her notepad.

“Can you give us a minute?” I asked.

“Sure,” she said with a crooked smile. “I’ll come back in a few minutes.”

“Thank you.”

As she shuffled away, I looked at Tito and let out a sigh. “You don’t manage car washes, do you?”

He wiped his brow with his forearm. “I do.”

“You seem nervous,” I stated. “Really nervous.”

“The general population distrusts police officers,” he argued. “They fear corruption.”

“According to who?”

“A recent survey I read.”

I coughed out a lungful of disbelief. “You’ve recently read a survey about police corruption?”

He nodded. “A few weeks ago.”