Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
Forge
Saturday afternoon finds me leaning against my truck in the parking lot of East L.A.
’s most famous taco row, checking my watch for the third time in two minutes.
Jordan’s not late—in fact, I’m fifteen minutes early because I couldn’t sit still in my apartment any longer—but that doesn’t stop the nervous energy buzzing under my skin.
Three days since our coffee shop negotiation, and I’ve spent most of that time second-guessing every word of our conversation.
The way she laughed when I suggested the random selection method.
The careful consideration in her eyes as she wrote her list. The moment her hand touched mine as we both reached to put our slips of paper in that gross Dodgers hat and something electric shot straight through my chest.
The crew noticed the change in me this week. Yesterday, Kam cornered me in the apparatus bay with that knowing grin. “Look at you, Ironwood,” he’d said, slapping my shoulder. “Walking around like you’ve got somewhere to be. Someone to impress.”
When I’d tried to brush it off, Thrall had chimed in from across the bay, “Leave him alone, Kam. Can’t you see he’s got that look?”
“What look?” I’d asked, immediately defensive.
“The look of a male who’s finally figured out he’s worth something,” Chief Brokka had said, appearing from his office. “About damn time, rookie.”
The entire crew had erupted in good-natured ribbing, but underneath the teasing, I’d caught their approval. Their belief that maybe I was finally starting to see myself the way they saw me.
For the first time since joining this crew—hell, maybe since coming through the Rift—I felt like I belonged.
Not because I’d earned it or proved anything, but because they saw me.
Not the nervous rookie or the orc trying too hard to fit in, but Forge.
Someone worth betting on. Someone who deserved good things.
Someone who might actually deserve Jordan.
Someone who might find his mate, or even his… soulbound.
The thought surprises me. Soulbonds are rare—at least according to the elders, it used to be.
But we now have six soulbound pairs among the males in this fire station.
My grandmother used to tell stories about how she knew my grandfather was her destiny the moment she saw him across a crowded market in the Old World.
“Like lightning striking,” she’d say. “Like every part of your body suddenly knows its purpose.”
I’d always thought those stories were exaggerated, the romantic embellishments of an old orc reminiscing about better days. But lately, since meeting Jordan, I’ve been wondering if maybe Grandmother was more literal than I’d realized.
“Stop it,” I mutter to myself, adjusting my collar. “You’re not bonding with anyone after one speed-dating disaster and two conversations.”
But the thought won’t leave me alone as I wait for her car to appear.
A familiar silver Honda pulls into the lot, and my pulse kicks up a notch. Through the windshield, I can see Jordan checking her makeup in the rearview mirror, and the small gesture sparks a sliver of hope in my chest. She’s nervous too.
She emerges from her car wearing dark jeans that hug her curves in ways that should probably be illegal, and a soft pumpkin-colored sweater that brings out the auburn highlights in her hair.
Loose waves spill around her shoulders, catching the afternoon sunlight, and when she spots me and offers a tentative smile, my lungs forget how to work.
As she walks toward me, the confident set of her shoulders eases, revealing a flicker of vulnerability beneath her usual composure. When she’s close enough that I can smell her perfume—something floral with an edge of citrus—she stops and looks up at me with those caramel eyes.
“Please tell me you didn’t get here an hour early to scout the locations,” she says, shouldering a small crossbody bag.
“Only fifteen minutes,” I admit, pushing off from the truck. “And I may have researched the best birria trucks in a one-mile radius.”
“Of course you did.” But she’s still smiling, and there’s something lighter about her today. Less guarded. “So, what’s the plan? I assume you have this all organized in your mind, like the slips of paper.”
“Yep. Four trucks today… quality over quantity. We rate each one on a scale of one to ten, and we crown a champion. Unless you have a different strategy?”
“Oh, I absolutely have a strategy.” Her eyes light up with a competitive fire that makes me want to see more of this side of her. “First, we establish our criteria. Broth quality, meat texture, cheese game, tortilla freshness, and overall authenticity—unless you disagree.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Second, we pace ourselves—small portions at each stop so we can actually make it through all four. Third, we take notes.”
She pulls out her phone and opens a spreadsheet app, already pre-populated with the criteria she just mentioned.
“You’re taking this seriously,” I observe, charmed despite myself.
“I don’t half-ass food adventures, Forge. If we’re going to find the best birria in East L.A., we’re going to do it right.” She looks up at me with mock seriousness. “Are you prepared for this level of commitment?”
“I think I can keep up,” I say, my eyes lingering on the curve of her mouth as she bites her lip in concentration. Damn if my body doesn’t remember that mouth in far too much detail.
The first truck, Birria El Jefe, sets a high bar. The elderly woman working the window greets us in rapid Spanish, and I’m surprised when Jordan responds fluently, ordering for both of us with the kind of confidence that suggests this isn’t her first taco truck rodeo.
“Law school in San Diego,” she explains when she catches my impressed look. “You pick up survival Spanish pretty quickly when you’re living off food truck meals.”
The tacos arrive steaming hot, the corn tortillas dipped in the broth before hitting the griddle, cheese oozing from the edges. The meat is tender enough to cut with a fork, though we’re given no utensils, and the broth is rich and complex with just enough heat to clear my sinuses.
“Solid eight,” I announce after my first bite. “Good meat, excellent cheese pull, broth has depth.”
“Seven-point-five,” Jordan counters, making notes on her phone. “The tortillas are a little thick, and I want more spice in the broth. Also, points off for using pre-shredded cheese instead of fresh.”
“Pre-shredded?” I take another bite, trying to detect what she’s tasting. “How can you tell?”
“Texture. Fresh cheese melts differently, creating better stretch.” She demonstrates by lifting her taco, showing the way the cheese extends in thick strings. “This breaks too cleanly. See?”
I see, but what really hits me is the way her lips shine with broth and the way she licks her fingertip before jotting a note. Focus, Forge. Tacos. “You have very strong opinions about cheese.”
“I have strong opinions about quality. There’s a difference.”
The second truck, Tacos La Familia, proves more divisive. I’m immediately won over by the depth of flavor in the broth, but Jordan wrinkles her nose after her first sip.
“Too much oregano,” she declares. “It’s masking the meat flavor. And the fat content is off—see how it’s pooling on top instead of blending in?”
“I think it’s robust,” I argue, though I taste what she’s talking about. “Sometimes bold flavors work.”
“Bold, yes. Balanced, no.” She makes another note, then lifts her brows at me. “Well? What’s your verdict, counselor for the defense?”
“Seven and a half,” I say after another bite. “I like the depth. It’s hearty. Comforting.”
“Comfort food?” She smirks. “This is birria, Forge, not a casserole.”
“Hey, sometimes a little comfort is good,” I shoot back. “Not everything has to be edgy and refined.”
“Six,” she says, typing it in with mock precision. “Comfort’s fine. Execution matters.”
“So… cozy but chaotic?”
“Exactly.” She hides a grin behind her phone.
That earns me a laugh, quick and genuine, before she hides her smile behind her phone.
By the third truck, Birria Reyna, we’ve fallen into an easy rhythm of friendly competition. She orders in Spanish again, chatting with the young man at the window about his grandmother’s recipe, while I study the setup and cooking technique through the service window.
“Show-off,” I murmur, half-teasing.
“Research,” she corrects. “The family’s been doing this for three generations. The grandmother still makes the spice blend by hand every morning.”
“And you found that out in thirty seconds of conversation?”
“I’m good at getting people to talk.” She takes a bite, and her eyes immediately light up. “Oh. Oh, this is different.”
It is different. The meat practically dissolves on my tongue, and the broth has layers I didn’t know were possible in a taco truck broth. The tortillas are perfectly charred at the edges but still soft, and the cheese—definitely fresh—creates exactly the kind of stretch Jordan was looking for.
“Nine,” I say immediately.
“Eight-point-five,” she counters, but I can see she’s fighting a smile. When her tongue darts out to catch a drop of broth on her lower lip, it takes every ounce of willpower not to lean over and lick it.
She catches me staring and freezes, taco halfway to her mouth.
For three heartbeats, we just look at each other across the rickety folding table, and I watch the exact moment awareness blooms in her eyes.
Her pupils dilate. Her lips part slightly.
She sets the taco down with careful precision, like she doesn’t quite trust her hands anymore.
“We should,” her voice comes out rough, and she clears her throat, “we should try the last truck.”
“Yeah,” I manage. “We should.”
But neither of us moves right away.