Chapter 13 #2
I follow her gaze as she scans the coffee shop, clearly looking for something with more personality. Her eyes land on something behind me, and a slow grin spreads across her face.
“Oh, that’s perfect.” She points to a cardboard box near the entrance labeled “LOST & FOUND” in cheerful hand lettering. “Look what’s sitting right on top.”
I turn to see a well-worn Dodgers hat perched on a pile of forgotten scarves and single gloves. The hat has clearly seen better days—the blue fabric is faded, the brim is slightly curved from wear, and a sweat mark rims the inside of the crown.
“You want to put our future romantic activities in someone’s sweaty baseball cap?”
“It’s authentic!” She’s already standing, gathering our paper strips with newfound enthusiasm. “Come on, it’s perfect. Some random Dodgers fan accidentally created the vessel for our dating destiny.”
“That hat smells like stadium nachos and regret, Jordan. I can smell it from here. Orcs have superhuman olfactory abilities.”
“Whatever.” She casually waves a hand as though she doesn’t think I’m telling the truth about being able to smell her from a block away. “It has character. Stories to tell.” She’s walking toward the lost and found box now, and I’m helplessly following, charmed despite myself by her sudden whimsy.
When we reach the box, she picks up the hat with two fingers, holding it at arm’s length like it might bite her. Her nose wrinkles slightly.
“We can go back to the bowl now if you want,” I offer.
“Absolutely not. We’ve come too far. We’re committed.” She peers inside the crown, then jerks her head back. “Okay, this is gross—but if we can survive choosing our first date from this questionable piece of headwear, we can survive anything.”
She holds the hat open like an offering bowl, nose wrinkling. “You hold it open, I’ll dump them in.”
She empties our folded papers into the hat, where they scatter among what I hope are just lint particles and not something more biological. “This is either the most romantic thing I’ve ever done, or evidence that we’re both having some kind of breakdown.”
“One does not preclude the other,” she says in her most lawyerly voice.
I swirl the hat gently, the papers rustling against the worn fabric.
“Okay, Forge, moment of truth. You pick.”
“Me? This hat was your idea.”
“And I’m delegating the actual selection to you. I draw the line at putting my hand inside someone else’s head sweat.”
I hand the hat back to Jordan, and she holds the hat steady.
Our fingers brush when I reach in. It’s barely contact—just the backs of my knuckles grazing hers for half a second—but the touch shoots electricity up my arm.
Her breath catches, and when our gazes meet over the disgusting baseball cap, I see my own reaction mirrored in her face.
Neither of us acknowledges it, but we both know something just shifted.
Her pulse jumps, and mine echoes it. For one impossible second, the whole world narrows to the warmth of her skin and the scent of roasted coffee on her breath. If fate wanted proof this is more than a game, it just got it.
I force myself to get back on task, and when I unfold the slip of paper, I can’t help but grin.
“‘Taco truck crawl,’” I read. “‘Find the best birria tacos within a one-mile radius.’”
Birria. Slow-braised meat steeped in chili and spices until it falls apart, stuffed into tortillas, and dunked in its own rich broth. Just thinking about it makes my mouth water.
“That’s mine.” Jordan claps her hands together, momentarily forgetting about the gross factor. “I wanted us to do something food-related. I may not be able to cook, but I have very strong opinions about tacos.”
“Saturday afternoon? We can start in East L.A. and work our way toward wherever the search takes us.”
“Yes, absolutely yes.” She sets the cap on the table, then immediately searches her purse for hand sanitizer. “I can’t believe I just did that. I touched someone’s hat sweat for you.”
“I’m honored. Literally honored by your sacrifice.”
“Don’t get used to it. Next time we’re using a clean container.
” She squirts sanitizer into her palm, then offers me some.
“I know it was my gross idea, and I appreciate you going along with it, but you have to admit, there’s something poetic about choosing our first real date from a piece of sports memorabilia that’s probably witnessed more human drama than a Telenovela. ”
“We need to give the date ideas a place to live,” I say. “Operation Date Rescue.”
“I’ll get reinforcements.” She makes a beeline for the counter, and I watch as she deploys her most charming smile on the barista—a young guy who immediately straightens up when she approaches.
Within thirty seconds, she’s returning with a small paper to-go bag, looking entirely too pleased with herself.
“Your powers of persuasion are terrifying,” I observe.
“I prefer ‘impressively effective.’” She holds the bag open like a surgical assistant. “Now grab our romantic destiny from the table before I change my mind about this whole thing.”
The way she says “romantic destiny” makes something inside me tighten. Watching her cradle that plain paper bag like it’s something fragile makes my chest ache. I want to be the one who keeps her safe like that.
I carefully maneuver the remaining paper slips into the clean bag with a satisfying rustle. Jordan immediately folds the top closed, cradling it like it contains precious gems rather than our questionable life choices.
“There,” she says, visibly relieved. “Crisis averted. Though I’m taking these home and transferring them to a proper Ziploc bag tonight. With labels. And… perhaps lamination.”
“You’re going to laminate our dates?”
“I’m a lawyer, Forge. Organization is my love language.” She tucks the paper bag carefully into her purse, then returns the hat to the lost and found with two fingers, nose wrinkled. “Godspeed, mysterious Dodgers cap. May you find your way home.”
I watch her perform this little ritual with barely suppressed amusement. “You know, most people don’t say goodbye to lost property.”
“Most people don’t use lost property to determine their romantic future.” She turns back to me with that devastating grin. “I have to respect the hat’s service, even if I’m deeply concerned about its hygiene.”
“Noted for future reference: Jordan O’Brien respects objects that facilitate her happiness, even questionable ones.”
“Especially questionable ones. They build character.” She says with authority as she squirts more sanitizer into her hands.
The challenge in her voice sends something warm spiraling through my chest. Weeks of wondering, and here she is—not just agreeing to see me again, but matching my intensity with her own.
As we head back to gather our things, I find myself watching her animated face, the way she’s already planning our taco adventure with the same intensity she probably brings to contract negotiations.
There’s something irresistible about a woman who’ll touch a stranger’s sweaty hat in the name of authentic romance.
“Question,” I say as we reach our table. “Rate your heat tolerance on a scale of one to ten.”
“Solid eight. Maybe nine if the flavor justifies the pain.” She slings her purse over her shoulder with new purpose. “Why? Are you planning to test my limits?”
“I know a place that serves birria so spicy it comes with a waiver.”
Her eyes light up with competitive fire. “Now you’re talking my language.”
The spark in her tone hits me all over again—proof that the wondering is over, replaced by something fierce and magnetic between us.
“Saturday at two, then. I’ll text you the meeting spot.” I offer my hand, and she takes it without hesitation this time. The contact is warm, grounding. “Fair warning—I take my taco research very seriously.”
“Good. I don’t respect people who half-ass their food adventures.” She adjusts the strap on her shoulder, then pauses, looking back at the discarded Dodgers hat.
“Best meet-cute story ever?”
“Definitely in the top five.” She heads toward the door, then glances back with a grin that makes my pulse stutter. It’s the kind of smile that reminds me how much trouble I’m already in. “Though I’m keeping the fact that I touched stranger sweat for you as leverage for future arguments.”
“Noted and filed appropriately.”
We step out into the early evening sun, and for a moment we just stand there on the sidewalk, the reality of what we’ve just committed to settling between us. No more wondering. No more extended radio silence. Just two people and twenty ridiculous activities… and whatever happens next.
“Forge?” Her voice is softer now, more uncertain.
“Yeah?”
“Thanks for not giving up on this. On us.” She looks down at her hands, then back up at me. “I’m not usually very good at taking chances.”
“You took a chance on a stranger’s hat. I’d say you’re braver than you think.”
Her laugh is bright and genuine. “Saturday, then. May the best birria win.”
I watch her walk to her car, noting the new lightness in her step, the way she turns back to wave before driving away. All this time apart, broken by a gross baseball cap and a woman brave enough to risk authenticity over safety.
This is either going to be the best decision I’ve ever made, or the most educational mistake of my life.
Either way, I’m already in too deep to back out—and the truth is, I don’t want to.