I didn’t realize how tense I was until Sloane’s words knock it out of me and have my shoulders rxing for the first time since she jumped out of that damn car.

    It’s not just her words that make me rx, either. It’s the way she’s leaning toward me, another one of those rare, real smiles on her lips.

    It’s small and a little uncertain, but it’s there as she asks me to add a drink to our order. I’d buy her a hundred drinks—a thousand diamonds—if it meant she keeps looking at me like that.

    Since I’m pretty sure offering either of those things will have her running for the Hollywood Hills, I tamp that shit down and settle for asking, “Any particr vor?”

    “Mandarin, obviously.” She shoots me a disbelieving look. “Is there any other kind?”

    Jesus, could she be more perfect? “Not in my world,” I agree as I order two, along with “a couple of bottles of water, por favor.”

    After I pay and grab the basket of chips and salsa, we head to one of the pic tables set up under the trees. It’s afternoon, so the lights strung through the branches aren’t lit, but it’s still a nice ce. And since the lunch rush is long gone, it’s secluded, too.

    “Which side do you want?” I ask when we reach the table.

    She shrugs. “Doesn’t matter.”

    I plop our drinks down, then gesture for her to sit on the cleaner bench before I slide in across from her. She grabs a water bottle and rinses her hands before holding it out to me.

    I do a quick wash and flick, then grab a chip and scoop up a generous amount of salsa before holding it out to Sloane.

    She pauses then, her gaze going from the chip to me and back again. I wait patiently—I’m in no hurry—and eventually she takes it.

    “How is it?” I ask as she swallows.

    She shrugs. “A tad mild for salsa, but good.”

    A bit surprised because little homegrown ces like this usually make the best, I grab another chip and load it up before shoveling the whole thing into my mouth. And nearly choke from the heat of it.

    My abu makes a solid five-rm salsa, but this beats the hell out of it. Eyes watering, I grab for the open water bottle and drain it dry as Sloane looks on in amusement.

    “That was a cruel trick,” I tell her when I can speak.

    “After the two of you thought I wouldn’t be able to handle the heat?” she asks, brows raised. “I don’t think so.”

    “To rify, she thought you wouldn’t be able to handle it. I never had a doubt.”

    “Too little, toote,” she sniffs, right before she reaches across the table and steals a long, slow slip of my drink. Not that I mind. I know she’s messing with me, but I like this yful side of her. I also like the idea of sharing something with Sloane, even if it is just a Jarritos.

    As soon as she puts the bottle down, I pick it up and take my own very deliberate sip.

    Sloane’s breath hitches in response, and for a second there’s something between us, something dark and gravitational. As the air turns electric, it reminds me of those moments outside the Willow right after she kissed me.

    With another woman, I might be tempted to lean forward a little just to see what happens. But this is Sloane, and she matters too much to leave anything up to chance, especially after everything she’s been through. Besides, she’s already kissed me once. If she wants to do it again at some point when we both aren’t still internally reeling from the hell that fucker Jarrod put her through, then I’ll be here.

    So instead of letting the moment hang between us, I deliberately break it. I reach for another chip and a much more moderate scoop of salsa.

    Sloane’s breath stutters out, and the look in her eyes is a mixture of relief and disappointment, which is just proof that we both need more time. Because the next time we kiss—if there is a next time—all I want to see in her eyes is the same need that’s slowly burrowing its way inside me.

    A need to hold her. To unfold her. To feel her heart beat in rhythm with mine as we find our way together through whateveres next.

    She shifts awkwardly and runs her hands up and down her arms. I take it as a cue to lighten things up. “What’s your favorite kind of taco?” I ask to fill up the sudden silence as we wait for lunch toe.

    She studies me for a second like she’s trying to figure out what game I’m ying. But I’m not running ys in my head right now, looking for an in. Because I’m not ying. Not now and not with her.

    “I feel like that’s a trick question,” she says after several more seconds go by.

    “No trick,” I shrug. “We’ve already established what vor of Jarritos is best.”

    The look she gives me says she’s not buying it, but she answers, “Breakfast tacos,” anyway.

    I grin. “Looks like we’re two for two.”

    “Looks like.” She takes another sip of my drink. “Best cookie?”

    “Easy. Polvorones, especially the yellow ones.” When she looks nk, I add, “Shortbread cookies. My abu makes the best ones you’ll ever taste.”

    She looks curious. “Why are the yellow ones better?”

    “If you talk to my sisters, they aren’t. They like the pink ones.” I shrug. “But on this one, specific thing, they are very wrong.”

    “You know what?” she says after thinking about it for a second. “I’m going to go with you on what I’m sure is a very controversial statement.”

    “You have no idea how controversial.” I grab another chip. “Battles have been won and lost.” I grab another chip.

    “Who won?”

    “I prefer not to talk about it.”

    Sheughs. “So not you, then.”

    “Never me,” I sigh. “There are three of them, and they’re mean. Especially Mariana. She’s the baby. Looks absolutely adorable but knows twenty ways to go for the balls.”

    She lifts a brow. “Because you taught them to her?”

    “It’s a fucked-up world out there. A woman’s got to know how to protect herself,” I answer mildly.

    The second brow joins the first. “Does that mean you’re going to teach me how to go for the balls?”

    “I’m pretty sure you’ve got that figured out,” I shoot back with a grin. Then turn half serious. “But, hell, yeah. If you want.”

    A bunch of our orderes before I can say anything else, and we spend the next few minutes eating some of the best damn street tacos I’ve ever had.

    When we finallye up for air—somewhere around taco number four for Sloane and number six for me—I say, “You never told me your favorite.”

    “Favorite what?” She looks startled.

    It’s my turn to lift my brows. “Cookie.”

    “Oh, right. It seems boring to follow ‘battles have been won and lost’ with chocte chip, but…” She shrugs.

    “The ssics are never boring.” My gaze holds hers. “Dark or milk chocte chips?”

    “Both,” she tells me. “Obviously.”

    “Obviously,” I agree, just so I can see her smile.

    “My turn.” She pops thest chip in her mouth. “Why football?”

    “I’m from a small town in Texas,” I answer with a shrug.

    “Really? That’s the best you’ve got?” She doesn’t sound impressed.

    I stiffen despite myself—not because of what she said but because the answer isn’t typical first date material.

    Then again, nothing about this is a typical first date. So I tell her what I don’t tell most people when they ask—the truth. “I started ying football because of my dad. He loved the sport, loved the Austin Twisters, loved the feel of the ball in his hands. He never got to y as a kid because he had osteosaa, and even after he went into remission the doctors cautioned against it. But that didn’t stop him from tossing a ball with my abuelo in the back yard, and it didn’t stop him from doing the same with me.

    “I loved to run, so we used to pretend I was a wide receiver—at least until he put me in peewee football when I was six. Turns out I’m better at throwing the ball than I am at catching it.”

    “Not to mention sneaking up the field while the others aren’t looking. Isn’t that where your abu said your nickname came from?”

    “You remembered.” I can’t help the grin that takes over my face.

    She looks away like she’s embarrassed.

    I reach for her hand. “I’m sorry. I was just—”

    She shakes her head, talks over my apology. “Your dad must be so proud.”

    And there it is. The part I’ve been dreading. I swallow the lump that still hasn’t gone away after seventeen years. “He died when I was ten. Couldn’t beat the shit a third time.”

    Sloane’s face falls. “Oh, Mateo—” She squeezes my hand.

    “It’s okay. It was a long time ago.”

    She snorts. “Time doesn’t mean shit when you lose someone you love.”

    “No, it doesn’t,” I agree. “But I was holding a ball when he died, and every time I hold one—even now—for one fleeting second, it feels like he’s right there with me.”

    Sloane doesn’t speak, but she doesn’t have to. The way she looks at me—like she knows that ache and lives with it, too—is enough. A mirror to my own pain, clear and quiet.

    We sit in silence after that. Not the kind that weighs heavy, but the kind that’s a conversation in and of itself. That says I see you. I’m still here.

    Eventually, though, Sloane stands up.

    “Ready to go?” I ask, starting to gather trash.

    “More like ready to get another drink,” she answers.

    “I can get it,” I tell her as I stand, too.

    She rolls her eyes. “I think I can handle the three bucks. Besides, I drank all of yours.”

    She heads back to the food truck before I can tell her I didn’t mind.

    While she’s gone, I pull out my phone and make a few quick arrangements for whates next. I’m done by the time shees back a couple of minutester, with another Jarritos and a giant concha amari.

    “They don’t have polvorones, but they did have one of these. She tried to give us a pink one, but I insisted on yellow.” She grins proudly.

    And just like that, I fall. Like really fall. All the way, no mat, no, nothing but air. I’m smart enough to know thending’s going to hurt, but right now—as I look into Sloane’s eyes sparking with joy—I can’t bring myself to care.

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