My jaw tightens.
She tilts her chin higher, like she’s daring me to argue.
She’s sitting, but somehow, she still manages to look defiant, infuriating, and entirely too pleased with herself.
I drink her in, everything else fading to background noise, and for the first time in years, I am completely fucking speechless.
And she sees it.
Because she smirks.
“Secondly,” she continues, waving her hand like she’s conducting a board meeting, “you should really try this taco.”
She gestures toward the plate like it’s the most important issue at hand, flippantly dismissing the fact that she just ran from a multimillion-dollar wedding, humiliated me, and forced me to hunt her down through the streets of Los Angeles.
Her braceleted wrist flicks in the air, emphasizing her point. A single drop of salsa flicks off her fingers. Lands on my jacket.
I stare down at her. She stares up at me.
She does not breathe.
Her fingers twitch like she’s debating whether she should try to wipe it off or simply flee the country.
Then—very, very carefully—she licks her lips, swallows, and murmurs, “Are we about to fight?”
A slow, calculated silence stretches between us.
Then I crouch.
Not aggressively. Not rushed. Slow. Measured. The way a predator moves when there’s no doubt in its mind it’s already won.
She tenses. It’s not fear—I know fear. This is something else.
She’s anticipating.
I reach forward, ignoring the way she holds her breath, and take the last uneaten taco from her plate.
She gasps. A soft, stunned sound—like I just committed blasphemy.
“Hey—”
I take a bite.
A slow, deliberate bite.
Her mouth falls open.
“Did you just—?”
“Not bad,” I murmur, chewing. “Though I think you might be overselling it.”
Her outrage is immediate.
“Excuse me? This is the best taco in the city! It’s the best taco in the state!” She waves a hand at the vendor. “Tell him!”
The vendor says nothing. He is still gripping his spatula tightly.
I swallow. Lick the leftover spice from my bottom lip. Watch her eyes track the motion.
