She glances at me sideways. “You don’t strike me as a food truck kind of guy.”
“No? What kind of guy do I strike you as?”
“I don’t know. Private chef. Fancy restaurants with names that don’t include any actual food words. Places where they describe dishes as ‘deconstructed.’”
Does she really see me that way?
I look over myself logging my plain pair of blue jeans and moss green pull-over. “Do I really come across that way? The fancy-guy type?”
She shrugs and shakes her head. “I don’t know. Maybe not.”
Or is it just because she knowsI have money?
“I mean, I’ve been to those places and they’re fine if that’s the atmosphere you’re looking for. But between you and me, I’d rather have something that doesn’t require me to google the menu first.”
“You really do that?”
“Absolutely. I’m just a guy from the Midwest. I grew up on meatloaf and homemade cheeseburgers and grilled chicken and vegetables,” I explain, recounting some of the meals my mom would make us. “And French toast on Saturday mornings.”
“Mmm.” Sutton’s eyes grow big and round at the mention of my favorite breakfast food. “I love French toast.”
“Me too. Are you a powdered sugar or syrup kind girl?”
Her brows furrow and she turns, looking at me like I’m crazy for even asking. “Uh, both, duh.”
I laugh at her answer. “That’s my girl.”
We round the corner and Stadium Park opens up before us. During the day, it’s packed with people, but at night the strings of lights immerse the area in a warm romantic glow and music drifts from somewhere nearby. There are all kinds of people laughing together around picnic tables, which allows Sutton to relax—her shoulders dropping, her guard lowering half an inch.
“What’s good?” she asks.
“Well, anywhere else I’m loyal to fries.”
“Of course you are.” She bites her lip to keep from laughing but a small giggle sneaks out anyway. I think I love that sound.
I mock her response. “I’m sorry, are you…are you judging me?”
“Well to be honest, I judge everyone.”
“Really? I never would have guessed,” I deadpan, watching her face light up as she scans the row of food trucks.
She laughs again, and yes, I like that sound. No doubt about it. Natural and unfiltered, not the careful laugh people use when they’re trying to impress me.
“Well, you’re officially exempt from judgment for the next…” she checks an imaginary watch, “thirty minutes.”
“So generous.”
“I’m known for my generosity.”
“To honestly answer your question though, I like fair fries, but in this lineup, tacos are my fave.”
“Tacos it is then.”
The line at the taco truck isn’t long. We step up and order; three carnitas for me, two al pastor for her. I reach for my wallet but she’s already pulling cash from her pocket.
“I got this,” she says firmly.
What the?—
