Daphne pulled her phone out and held it up.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Just getting proof that you own a functioning vehicle made before 2020. Feels historical.”
“Delete it.”
“Say please.”
“No.”
She snapped the photo anyway, smug as hell.
And for a second, as we drove toward a fake lunch for a fake relationship with very real history, I felt something suspiciously close to okay.
God help me.
I pulled into a gravel lot behind a park.
No signage. No glowing neon. Just a faded awning and the scent of grilled meat drifting out from the open kitchen window.
“This is it?” Daphne asked, eyeing the place like it might give her tetanus on sight.
“Don’t judge by appearances,” I said, killing the engine. “Some of the best food in the town comes from places that look like crime scenes.”
She didn’t move. Just gave me a sidelong glance. “You take all your fake girlfriends here?”
“Only the ones I want to strangle.”
She grinned. “Charmed.”
We got out and headed inside. The guy behind the counter—Rafi—nodded when he saw me.
“Lo usual?” he asked.
“Make it double,” I said, then jerked my chin toward Daphne. “And give her whatever she thinks she can handle.”
Daphne stepped up, eyes narrowing at the hand-written chalkboard menu. “What’s the hottest salsa you’ve got?”
Rafi looked at her like she’d asked for a shovel to dig her own grave. “La Muerte.”
She smiled sweetly. “Perfect.”
I didn’t say a word. Just paid and took the drinks to a picnic bench outside, where the sun was strong and the breeze smelled like cilantro and smoke.
She joined me a few minutes later, setting down her tray like she was preparing for battle.
“You know you don’t have to prove anything, right?” I said, unwrapping my taco.
“I’m not proving anything,” she said primly. “I just like a little heat.”
Right.
She took one bite and immediately coughed, blinking hard. Her face flushed like a warning light.
I handed her my drink without a word.
She didn’t argue. Just grabbed it and took a long pull, eyes watering, dignity bleeding out of her pores.
