“Sutton—”
“Nope.” She hands the money to the guy in the truck. “You can get the next thing.”
I consider arguing but something tells me it would be a waste of breath. Instead, I nod. “Deal.”
Because that means there will be a next thing.
We find an empty picnic table and sit across from each other. She unwraps her taco with a focus that makes me smile.
“What?” she asks, catching me.
“Nothing. You’re very serious about your food,” I explain.
“Oh. Yeah.” She looks slightly self-conscious, then shrugs. “I don’t waste good food.”
There’s a story there, I’m sure, but I don’t push. We all have skeletons in our closets, and she’s allowed to have hers. Instead, I take a bite of my own taco, appreciating the perfect balance of lime, cilantro, and tender pork.
“So, I’m assuming you’re not one of those people with the off-kilter genetics that makes cilantro taste like soap?”
She scowls over her taco and then looks at me like I just spoke another language. “Wait…that’s a thing? Like areal thing?”
I nod. “Sadly, yeah. One of the guys on the team hates cilantro. Said it tastes like his grandmother’s hand soap every single time.”
“That’s tragic!”
“Right?”
“So,” she says after a few more bites in silence, “is this where you bring all your dates? Food trucks by the stadium?”
“Only the ones who think my pants are stupid and overly expensive.”
She laughs, covering her mouth with her hand. “So, I’m special, then?”
“Very.”
Our eyes meet, and something shifts in the air between us. I watch her carefully, noting how she glances away first, focusing intently on her food.
“This is really good,” she admits.
“Told you.”
“Don’t get smug. I never doubted the food. Just your taste.”
“My taste is excellent,” I argue. “I’m here with you, aren’t I?”
She rolls her eyes, but there’s color in her cheeks. “Smooth.”
“I’m trying,” I admit. “Is it working?”
“That’s classified information,” she says, but her smile gives her away.
We finish our tacos in comfortable silence, watching people stroll through the park. There’s something easy about being with Sutton, even when we’re not talking. No pressure to fill every moment with conversation or pretend to be interested in things I’m not.
“So,” she says finally, crumpling her wrapper. “What’s the verdict on food truck tacos versus private chef tacos?”
“No contest. These win every time.”
“Because they’re better?”
