Chapter 7
SHEPHERD
The city feels softer at night. Less demanding. Or maybe it’s because of who I’m with. We head toward Stadium Park, the streetlights casting long shadows across the pavement. For a while, we don’t talk and it’s not even awkward. It’s just…easy.
“You do this a lot?” she asks finally.
“Walk?”
She bites back a smile. “No, disappear into normal places.”
“I’m a normal guy, aren’t I?”
She scoffs. “You are so not a normal guy.”
“What?” I tease, bringing a hand to my chest. “You wound me.”
“Oh, I imagine you’ll recover quickly. Nothing an ice bath and some physical therapy won’t fix.”
“Ah, so you do know a little about football.”
“I don’t know a little about football,” she argues. “But I know enough.”
“Enough to mock it properly?”
“Exactly.” She smiles and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, a small act I wish I could do for her. “Know your enemy and all that.”
“Oh, so I’m the enemy now?”
“Not you specifically.” Her voice softens. “Just…the system.”
“Well, for what it’s worth, I like going into what you call normal places because it reminds me who I am when nobody’s watching.”
She nods slowly.
“That’s fair.”
The night air feels good against my skin, cool but not cold. Portland in the fall has a particular smell. Damp earth, coffee, and something I can’t quite name. It feels good though, walking through it next to Sutton.
“So do you have a last name, Sutton?”
“Yep.” She nods. “So, these food trucks, they’re actually good?”
I laugh, noting that she isn’t telling me her last name just yet and consider it a personal challenge to earn the reward of learning it. “Some of the best food in Portland. Definitely better than anything with white tablecloths.”
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 knows I 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—
“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 a real 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?”
I lean forward, lowering my voice like I’m sharing a secret. “Because I don’t have to thank anyone for making them except the guy who forgot to wash his hands after using the bathroom.”
She laughs, loud and surprised, and I feel unreasonably proud of myself for causing that glorious sound to come from her.
“That’s disgusting,” she says.
I cringe. “I know, but probably true.”
“Definitely true.” She looks around the park, taking in the lights strung between trees and the scattered groups of people enjoying the evening. “It’s nice here.”
“Yeah. Most people don’t think to come at night.”
“It’s definitely quieter than I imagined,” She observes. “I like it.”
“Just promise me you’ll never walk through here alone at night. It’s not always the safest area.”
She smirks. “You mean without my knight in fancy pants?”
“Yeah.” I nod chuckling softly. “It’s one thing to come here with someone, but it could be a whole other ballgame walking around here at night by yourself. Not that I’m saying you couldn’t handle yourself, but…”
“I get it. Trust me. The only place I walk alone is between the bar and my apartment.”
“Oh, so you live close to the bar?”
“Mhmm.” She nods. “I’m a few blocks away.”
I don’t love that as it’s not the best area. Especially not for a single female. I can’t imagine she lives anywhere with trusted security.
“Sometimes Cal walks me home if things feel off and especially if there are some less than questionable customers hanging around the bar.”
“I’d be happy to walk you home anytime I’m in town. Or drive you, even.”
The idea of her walking the streets at night does not sit well with me and I’m already mapping out my schedule for the next few days when she says, “That’s not necessary. But thank you for the offer.”
“Your safety is always necessary, Sutton, and I’d be happy to do it. Anytime. Seriously.”
She gives me a look that’s half-surprised, half-suspicious. “You don’t even know where I live.”
“I don’t need to. I just want to know that you’re safe is all.
“And what if I need someone at three in the morning?”
I meet her eyes. “Then you call me at three in the morning.”
She studies me like she’s trying to solve a complex equation. “You’re very…protective for someone who barely knows me.”
“I’m protective of anyone who might need it,” I say with a shrug. “It’s not personal.”
Except with her it kind of is.
“Liar,” she says, but there’s no heat in it. “It’s totally personal.”
I can’t help but grin. “Okay, maybe a little. I know you’ve obviously taken care of yourself for a long time, but just know the offer stands, if and when you need it. No questions asked.”
She nods, then stands and tosses her wrapper in a nearby trash can. “So, what’s next on this non-date food tour?”
I follow her lead, grateful for the change of subject. “Ice cream? There’s a good place around the corner.”
“Let me guess, you’re paying this time?”
“If you’ll let me,” I tease.
She considers this, then nods. “Fine. But only because I’m a sucker for ice cream.”
Sutton likes ice cream.
Noted.