Page 37 of Thankful for My Orc
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.
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 withwhat 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.
