Chapter 14 #2
A car horn blares nearby, shattering the moment.
Jordan blinks, breaking eye contact, and reaches for her water like it’s a lifeline.
She takes a long drink, and I watch her deliberately rebuild her composure, brick by brick.
When she sets the cup down, her professional mask is mostly back in place—but I can still see the flush on her cheeks, the way her hand trembles slightly when she picks up her phone to check her notes.
“So,” she says, her voice only a little unsteady. “An average of 8.75 for Birria Reyna. That means Don Miguel has a lot to live up to.”
I let her redirect us back to safer ground, even though every cell in my body is screaming to lean across this table and find out if she tastes as good as I remember.
“You’re a tough critic,” I say, unable to hide the note of admiration in my voice.
“I have high standards.”
The last truck, Birria Don Miguel, erases all disappointments. It’s tucked into a corner spot, with a line of locals that immediately tells us we’re onto something special.
The owner, a man in his sixties with flour-dusted hands, takes our order himself.
When Jordan compliments his setup in Spanish, he beams and disappears into the truck, returning with what are clearly off-menu additions—extra crispy cheese skirts and a small cup of intensely flavored broth that he explains is the “special batch.”
“Now this,” Jordan says after her first taste, “this is what I’m talking about.”
The birria is perfect—tender meat, broth with just enough heat to make you reach for your drink but not enough to overwhelm the complex blend of chilies and spices.
The tortillas are made fresh, still warm from the comal, and the cheese creates those perfect Instagram-worthy pulls that suggest both authenticity and technique.
“Ten,” I say without hesitation.
“Nine-point-five,” Jordan admits. “I never give tens. There’s always room for improvement.”
“Even when something’s perfect?”
“Nothing’s perfect. There’s always—” She stops mid-sentence as a drop of broth slides down from the corner of her mouth, glistening against her skin.
Without thinking, I reach out and catch the drop with my thumb, just beneath her lower lip. The moment my skin makes contact with hers, everything else disappears. Her skin is impossibly soft, warm, and I can feel the slight tremor that runs through her when I don’t immediately pull away.
The broth is hot on my thumb, but not as hot as the awareness that suddenly crackles between us. She goes perfectly still, her eyes wide and locked on mine. This close, I can see the flecks of green in her caramel irises, can smell her perfume mixing with chili and spice.
Her breath ghosts across my wrist. My thumb shifts—barely—skating along the corner of her mouth, and her lips part on a sharp inhale. Her pupils dilate and I see the exact moment she stops breathing entirely.
“Got it,” I manage, my voice coming out rough as a gravel road.
“Thank you,” she whispers, but she doesn’t step back, doesn’t break eye contact. If anything, she sways slightly closer. For one terrifying, thrilling second, I think she might kiss me right here in front of a line of strangers.
The urge to cup her face, to close that final inch between us and taste the combination of spice on her lips, is so strong it takes every ounce of restraint I possess to step back instead.
“Sorry,” I say, dropping my hand. “Didn’t want it to stain.”
“It’s fine,” she says quickly, but her cheeks are flushed, and she touches the spot where my thumb was with unconscious fingers. “I, um, I should probably be more careful.”
“Or I could carry napkins,” I suggest, trying to lighten the moment even though my heart is thundering against my ribs.
“Always prepared,” she quips, but her voice is still breathless.
We eventually find an open table and squeeze onto the same side of a rickety bench.
A few minutes later, her knee knocks against mine.
She doesn’t move it right away, and neither do I.
The press of warmth lingers longer than it should before she shifts back, clearing her throat like nothing happened.
We finish our tacos in relative silence, both of us suddenly very interested in our food and very careful not to let our hands touch when we reach for our drinks. But I can feel the change in the air between us, the way something shifted in those moments of contact.
When we’re done, Jordan pulls out her phone and scrolls through her notes with the kind of intense focus that suggests she’s using work to regain her equilibrium.
“Final rankings,” she announces, though her voice is still slightly unsteady. “Don Miguel takes the crown at 9.75. Birria Reyna comes in second at 8.75. El Jefe is third at 7.75.”
“You make it sound like a courtroom verdict,” I tease.
“It’s not a verdict—it’s standards.” She looks up at me with a small smile. “Though I have to admit, that might’ve been the best taco crawl I’ve ever done.”
“Better than your law school days?”
“Much better company,” she says, and there’s something in her tone that makes my chest tighten with hope.
As we leave Don Miguel’s truck, Jordan stumbles slightly on the curb—nothing dramatic, just a small misstep.
I catch her elbow without thinking, the reflex automatic.
Then we’re standing too close on a busy East L.A.
corner, traffic rushing past, the world blurring around the small space between us.
“Thanks,” she says, but she doesn’t step back immediately.
“Careful,” I murmur, and my hand slides from her elbow down to her hand. Just for a moment. Just to make sure she’s steady.
Her fingers curl against mine—tentative, testing—and for five seconds we’re just standing here, holding hands on the sidewalk like teenagers.
The contact sends a jolt through me. Her pulse flutters against my skin, quick and uncertain, and I catch the faint shift in her scent—hesitation softening into something warmer, braver.
My senses sharpen around her: the fine bones of her hand, the silk of her skin, the quiet bloom of happiness that wraps around us both.
A low rumble starts in my chest—not quite a purr, but close. I barely manage to suppress it before it’s loud enough for her to hear.
Then someone brushes past us, breaking the spell, and we both laugh nervously and step apart.
But as we walk toward the parking lot, her hand finds mine again. This time, it’s deliberate. Her fingers thread through mine with quiet certainty, and we stroll the remaining two blocks in silence, both pretending this isn’t a massive shift in whatever’s happening between us.
“So,” I say as we reach her Honda. “Verdict on random selection date number one?”
“Better than expected,” she admits, leaning against her car door. “Much better than expected, actually.”
“Good enough to try number two?”
“I think so.” She pulls out her phone and scrolls to what I assume is her calendar app. “When were you thinking?”
“Next weekend? Saturday afternoon again?”
“Saturday works.” She adds something to her calendar, then looks up at me with an expression I can’t quite read. “Wait,” she says, reaching into her purse and pulling out a Ziplok bag with paper slips. “Shouldn’t we pick our next adventure while we’re both here?”
“Good thinking. Your turn to pick.”
She reaches into the bag without hesitation, fishing around among the papers before pulling one out. She unfolds it slowly, and I watch her face for clues.
“Vintage arcade tournament,” she reads, “Oh boy, mine again! I chose this as one of my ten dates because there’s a place in Hollywood with all the classics—Pac-Man, pinball, skee-ball. I went once in law school and always wanted an excuse to go back.”
“Sounds like a challenge,” I say, already imagining her competitive streak in a neon-lit arcade. “But fair warning: total rookie here. Never even been inside one.”
She’s quiet for a moment, and I can practically see the wheels turning in her lawyer brain. “Then you’re in luck. I’ll show you the ropes—and if there are tickets or prizes, I’ll even share. Fair warning, though. That doesn’t mean I’ll let you win.”
“Wouldn’t expect it,” I say. “But if I manage a comeback, I expect full bragging rights.”
“Define ‘comeback.’”
“Any scenario where I score one point before total annihilation.”
She laughs, that real laugh that hits low in my chest. “You’re setting the bar low, Ironwood.”
“Smart males do.”
As I watch her drive away, I can’t help but think that random selection might be the smartest idea I’ve ever had. Four taco trucks, one perfect afternoon, complete with the memory of holding her hand.
Less than a full month ago, we were strangers who had incredible chemistry. Today, I watched her argue passionately about cheese pulls and broth techniques, saw her switch effortlessly between English and Spanish, and witnessed her competitive fire in action.
I’m starting to think I was wrong about us being strangers.
I’m starting to think we might be exactly what each other needs.