Chapter Seven
Minerva
“I want to take you to dinner.”
I look up from my tablet at the sound of Tristan’s voice. The sudden crick in my neck tells me that I haven’t moved from this exact spot in… lots of minutes. Too many uncountable minutes. I tend to lose track of time, especially when I’m focused on something.
“What?” I croak.
Kepler, who has been draped across my lap in nap mode, perks up. He chirps and hops to his feet. I hope he’s not ready to go into full zoomies mode. I don’t think I could take the added stress, given that I’m already on alert.
Tristan rests his elbows on the back of the couch. “You’ve been working hard. I really appreciate the time and attention you put into everything.”
Heat crawls up my neck as the memory ambushes me—me, curled half into his lap the other night, legs tucked instinctively around his waist like some kind of koala, talking too fast about molecular bonding and enzymatic pathways because he was listening.
Really listening. Not glazing over. Not teasing.
Not making me feel strange or excessive or small.
And the joy at that? It just exploded out of me.
I’ve been punishing myself for that slip ever since—tightening the screws on every instinct, every softness. God forbid he think I’m the kind of girl who assumes she’s wanted.
I was so startled by the safety of it that my body forgot its rules, forgot distance, forgot that people don’t usually want you that close when you’re talking about science.
I realized it all at once—where I was, what I was doing—and the humiliation still punches the air from my lungs. I’ve been careful ever since. Quiet. Professional. Determined never to be that personal with him again if I can help it.
Except I live here. His house. His space. And no amount of resolve changes the fact that every room I retreat to still belongs to him.
“It’s my job,” I croak out. “No rewards required.”
But something warm flickers low in my chest anyway. A tiny spark whispering that maybe—not tonight, but someday—I’m allowed to want nice things, too.
“You’re going above and beyond. I want to do something nice for you. Unless… you don’t want to go?” A little wrinkle appears between his brows. I want to smooth it away with my thumb.
The thing is, I don’t want to go. Dinners mean reservations and fancy dresses and small talk, and trying to hear yourself think over the chatter of other diners, and ordering the right thing instead of the thing you actually want.
I don’t want to be rude, though. It’s clear that Tristan wants to make me happy. “How do you feel about food trucks?” I blurt. It feels reckless to choose the thing that lights me up inside without knowing his response in advance.
The wrinkle disappears, and Tristan’s objectively handsome face splits into a charmingly asymmetrical grin. “I love them. But I should warn you, I can’t handle a lot of heat.”
“Not a problem.” I scoop up Kepler in one arm. “I’ll take him back to my room. Do you want to go now? We can call it your cheat day.”
“I could eat. To be fair, that’s almost always true.”
I’ve noticed this, especially when it comes to sweets and salt. “I’ll be right back out.”
I shut the door behind me and lean against it for a second, letting my breath catch. Going out with Tristan shouldn’t feel like this. It’s just food. Nothing serious. But my pulse is jumping like I swallowed a live wire.
Kepler noses at my palm, impatient, so I set him down and open his playpen. “Don’t judge me,” I whisper. “I’m panicking enough for both of us.”
I head to the small dresser, the one I’ve barely touched because I still half-expect someone to tell me I don’t belong here.
My fingers hover over the clothes I brought.
Finally, I pick a fitted graphic tee and dark jeans, something simple that doesn’t feel like I’m pretending to be someone I’m not.
My hands shake when I pull the shirt over my head. My brain starts cataloguing every insecurity on autopilot: too scrawny, too awkward, too much of a stray for a guy like him. Tristan Dubois is steady and warm and golden in ways I only let myself admire from a safe distance.
I take a long breath. “He asked you,” I remind myself quietly as I swipe on one coat of mascara and some light pink lip gloss. “On purpose.”
I braid my hair to keep it off my face, then undo it, then try again. I check the mirror one more time. I still look like me—nervous, rumpled, uncertain—but there’s something lighter around the edges. A spark I haven’t seen in a long time.
Excitement.
Fear.
Hope so sharp it almost hurts.
Kepler chirps, climbing the pen like he wants to escape and follow me. “No,” I murmur, kissing the top of his head. “I’m the one who needs supervising today.”
I grab my bag, wipe my palms on my jeans, and force my legs to move. The hallway looks impossibly bright as I step out and shut the door behind me.
Once we’re in Tristan’s car, I direct him into East Vegas, to a narrow alley behind an old thrift shop. A hand-painted sign, string lights, and folding chairs surround the food truck itself. A neon sign in the front window reads 303 in the Cut.
“Is that the name?” he asks. “Weird.”
“It’s a classic. Order one of everything.”
Tristan points to the blackboard propped next to the ordering window. “There’s only, like, eight things on the menu. And three of them are desserts.”
I nod. “Which means everything is good. Trust the process.”
“You sound like Dante.” Tristan shakes his head even as he steps forward to do exactly what I said. It’s going to be way more food than we can eat in one sitting, but it’ll be cheaper than a sit-down dinner at some upscale Vegas eatery, and we can always take the leftovers home.
Everything about this feels like a dream. In my old life, this could never have happened. My parents wouldn’t be caught dead ordering from a food truck tucked away in a parking lot somewhere. Luca would never take me on a date like this.
Not that we’re on a date. It’s just dinner. Still, Tristan is the only person I know who would be gung-ho about having a meal like this.
While we wait for our food to be prepared, we pick a spot. It’s a warm night, and the sun is starting to hang low in the sky. I smile up at the lights. “Isn’t this charming?”
“It’s a great spot, Min.”
“You called me that the other day,” I observe.
“Would you rather I not?”
I don’t mind. I don’t hate the nickname Minnie, but in Luca or Frankie’s mouth, it always felt insulting. Like they were calling me ‘Mini.’ Small. Child-size. Less than whole. I think Tristan could call me anything he wanted, though, because he’s never tried to make me feel inadequate.
“I like it,” I tell him. “It’s new.”
His smile eases in a way that makes my chest compress. Like he’s pleased I offered him a piece of my world.
Our food comes out quickly. It’s immediately obvious that we’re out of our depths.
The burrito is so big it needs its own support group.
The citrus pork is smothered with creamy chipotle aioli and fresh jalapenos.
The loaded fries come in a paper boat and are smothered in queso, pickled onions, brisket, and green chili crema.
I stab a fork into a mound of fries and drag them through the sauce to make sure I get a bit of everything.
As soon as the swirling flavors hit my tongue, I moan. Across the picnic bench from me, Tristan chokes on his soda.
Convention dictates that I should eat my main course before even touching the desserts, but I push the thought from my mind and do this the right way.
I take a few bites of everything so that I know how it all tastes fresh.
I try a forkful of a slice of tiramisu that tastes like it was blessed by the gods.
There’s no delicate way to eat the cheesecake sandwich, though.
This culinary masterpiece consists of two churros on either side of a vanilla bean cheesecake, all of which has been dipped in chocolate.
I take a messy bite and close my eyes so that I can revel in the flavors: the crunchy, chewy cinnamon of the churros, the creamy sweetness of the cheesecake, the slight bitterness of the chocolate…
It’s perfection. It’s a smore’s final form, the ultimate dessert evolution.
I lick my fingers clean, savoring every last bit.
Tristan makes a very odd noise. When I look up, he’s staring at my mouth. And my fingers. And my fingers in my mouth.
“Sorry. Despite the evidence, I was not raised in a barn.” I reach for a napkin. Mom would have slapped me across the face if she caught me eating this messily. Luca probably would, too. Funny how I didn’t hesitate to make a mess of myself in front of Tristan without overthinking it.
“That’s not what I was thinking.” He shakes his head, as if clearing his thoughts, and helps himself to more loaded fries. “How did you find this place?”
“There’s a Reddit thread where people post about their favorite food trucks. I mapped all of them into a GPS cluster system.”
Tristan stares at me like I hung the damn moon. At my mouth. At me. Something molten and terrifying and electric coils low in my stomach. And… maybe it’s okay he sees me enjoying something. Maybe it’s okay that I’m not unimportant right now.
“How many?”
“All of them.”
“All?”
“Every food truck in Vegas. I check every week or two to see if a new one has popped up.”
“Have you gone to a lot of them, then? Like, have you been doing this for a while?”
I pluck up another fry. “I haven’t gotten a lot of chances recently.
When I was in my master’s program, I did what I wanted with my free time, but since I graduated…
” I trail off. Tristan doesn’t need to know about the whole business with Luca.
Why should he? That part of my life is over.
Dad cut me off. Luca’s out of the picture. I’m free.
So why does it still feel like those old obligations are snapping at my heels?
“My parents got a little more controlling. You know how it is.” I shrug one shoulder.