Reborn at Eighteen The Billionaire's Second Chance novel Chapter 68

Chapter 68

Elara

The Rolls–Royce cut through Manhattan’s late–night streets for

twenty minutes before pulling up to an unassuming Mexican

restaurant. The neon sign above the door read “La Fogata” in orange-

red letters, casting a warm glow that stood out against the darkness.

Through the glass windows, I could see a few remaining tables of

diners, and the air carried the scent of grilled meat, chili peppers, and

corn tortillas. Red chili peppers hung decoratively by the entrance,

and a hand–painted sign on the wall proclaimed “Auténtica Comida

Mexicana.”

I stared at the storefront, then turned to Julian in disbelief. “Here?”

He stepped out and opened my door with practiced ease. “Problem?”

I hesitated, climbing out slowly. The image of Julian Vane in his Tom

Ford suit standing outside this neighborhood spot felt surreal. “I

thought you’d take me to The Modern or Per Se…”

“They’re closed at this hour.” He paused, his gaze flickering to me briefly. “And… you like spicy food, don’t you?”

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My heart skipped a beat. He remembered.

Inside, colorful Mexican tiles and paintings of Virgen de Guadalupe

decorated the walls. Low mariachi music played from corner speakers.

A middle–aged Latina woman in an apron approached, her eyes

widening slightly at our formal attire before breaking into a warm

smile.

“Welcome! Welcome! You want table?”

Julian nodded. “Private booth if you have one.”

She led us to a semi–private booth near the back, decorated with

string lights and paper flowers. Julian took the laminated menu

without asking my preference and began ordering in fluent Spanish.

“Tacos al pastor, enchiladas de mole, chiles rellenos con queso,

carnitas, y guacamole con extra jalapeños. También traiga salsa

habanero.”

The owner’s eyes lit up, responding in Spanish before switching back

to English. “Very spicy, you like?”

Julian glanced at me. “She likes it.”

“Your girlfriend very lucky, handsome man who know what she want!”

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Heat flooded my face. “We’re not-”

“Thank you,” Julian interrupted smoothly, his tone accepting the

assumption without correction.

The owner left with a satisfied smile. I sat across from him, watching

as he rolled up his sleeves, revealing toned forearms. The casual

gesture felt strangely domestic, unsettling in its normalcy.

“I told you I’m not hungry,” I said, even as my traitorous stomach

contradicted me.

“Then watch me eat.” He settled back, looking entirely too

comfortable in the booth’s warm lighting.

The food arrived quickly, carried by the owner and her son on sizzling cast–iron plates. The tacos al pastor gleamed with roasted pork,

pineapple, and cilantro. Dark mole sauce covered the enchiladas.

Golden–fried chiles rellenos oozed melted cheese. The carnitas

looked crispy and succulent. A bowl of guacamole sat loaded with

chopped jalapeños, flanked by small dishes of salsa verde and salsa

habanero. Warm corn tortillas rested in a basket, and the spice–laden

air made my mouth water despite myself.

Chapter 68

The owner set down the last dish, winking at Julian. “You very sweet

to your girl. She eat good tonight!”

My face burned. After she left, he assembled a taco with practiced

movements–carnitas, guacamole, wrapped in a fresh tortilla–and

placed it on my plate. “Eat.”

I turned away stubbornly. “I told you I’m not hungry.”

He didn’t argue. Instead, he picked up another taco and bit into it

with elegant efficiency. The silence stretched, filled only with distant

guitar music and kitchen sounds.

My eyes drifted to the food despite my resistance. The cheese pulling

from the chiles rellenos. The crispy edges of the carnitas. Those

bright red jalapeños nestled in green guacamole. Each dish seemed

designed to torment me.

My stomach growled again. Loudly.

Julian looked up, the corner of his mouth twitching with something that might have been amusement.

I surrendered. Picking up the taco, I bit into it with feigned

casualness.

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The flavors exploded–roasted pork’s char, pineapple’s sweetness,

cilantro’s freshness, jalapeño’s perfect heat. My eyes widened. I

chewed quickly, took another large bite.

Julian’s expression softened as he watched my transformation from

restraint to engagement.

After finishing the taco, I speared a piece of chile relleno. The cheese

stretched impressively. I blew on it before taking a bite, the heat

bringing tears to my eyes, but I couldn’t stop. I scooped up enchiladas

next, the complex mole sauce–cocoa, chili, cinnamon–making me

close my eyes in pleasure.

Julian pushed a glass of ice water toward me. “Slow down, nobody’s

competing with you.”

I grabbed the water, drinking deeply, suddenly aware of how I must

look. My movements slowed, but my eyes kept stealing glances at the

remaining dishes.

“…It’s really good,” I admitted quietly, unable to hide my delight.

The words came out bright and girlish, nothing like the broken girl crying in the alley moments ago.

Julian watched me with an expression I couldn’t read–something soft

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in those usually cold eyes, like observing a hungry animal finding

food.

I grabbed another piece of carnitas, dipping it recklessly in the habanero salsa. The extreme heat made me gasp, tears streaming, but

satisfaction spread across my face.

Julian handed me a napkin. “You have salsa on your chin.”

I wiped hastily, my ears burning.

As I finished eating, the warm lights cast gentle shadows across

Julian’s face. He’d been watching me, his taco forgotten halfway to his

mouth, lost in thought.

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