A small nearly undetectable smile tugs at one corner of his mouth. “I could go for a food truck…”
With that, we make our way to Tony’s Authentic Mexican Street Food. It’s parked somewhere between the Luxor and the Excalibur and despite being hot, greasy, and loud from the ever-running generator, the line is at least 15 people long, and it smells like heaven.
“My sister would freak if she knew I wasn’t milking a five-star restaurant out of you,” I chuckle as the line slowly moves along.
“Is that what you want?”
“Hell no,” I say with a crinkled nose.
After a beat, he asks another question. “Why do I take it you do what she says a lot?”
“Because I do what she says a lot,” I snort. “I’m sure it’s obvious.”
“What’s obvious?" he asks as we get closer to the front of the line.
“That I am the rule following, responsible older sister who never has any fun.”
“I never assumed that about you,” he says.
I roll my eyes over to him. “Oh really?”
Callum looks right at me with the same eyes he looked at me with when he was on stage. Alive. Wild. Suggestive.
Dead, fucking sexy.
“I see more than that.”
After a long, hot moment, I am able to rip my gaze away.
We are close enough to the truck now that I can divert my attention to the menu, even though I already know what I want.
“You’re just saying that because you want to get laid,” I say, and I swear to God I hear a laugh escape his throat.
“No offense, sweetheart, but if all I wanted was to get laid, I wouldn’t have to put time or effort into it.”
Why did that just make me aware of what's going on in my panties?
We order our food and Callum pays for it, even though I’m not sure those were the rules. Come to think of it, we dipped out of there so fast I don’t actually know what the rules were.
He gets a carne asada burrito with everything on it and I get the loaded nachos with extra jalapenos.
We both order a margarita.
We take our food over to a bench and he clinks his plastic marg glass to mine.
“To blind dates,” he says.
“And good street food,” I add and we both smile before taking a sip.
Both of us cough. “Jesus Christ, they pour heavy.”
“Are you complaining?” he asks, swallowing hard before taking another sip.
“Not at all.”
We eat and drink in the hot Nevada air, and as the tequila melts our nerves, we get more talkative too.
“So, Noah is my best friend and co-worker,” he says, his words fluid.
